The Search
by Zeragii
Summary: When they come across a child in a ruined town, both Corporal Blutch and Sargent Chesterfield embark on a journey to find the little girl's family. Meanwhile, Blutch has a problem of his own to sort out. Rated T just in case.
1. It Begins

It was a beautiful day. The sun shifted warm beams of sunshine between the slowly migrating clouds, casting patterns of light and shadow over the land. Birds sang, cattle lowed in the corals, and all was quiet...for now. Blutch knew it wouldn't stay that way. If there was one thing he had learned from his four years in the Union army, it was that there was no such thing as a "quiet" day. Over the last few years of his young life he had seen more than his share of battle, destruction, and death. He shuddered.

Will this ever end? He wondered, glancing back at the Union camp. How he hated the army! Hated the war. Hated everything to do with it...but it was all he had known for the last four years. In a way, it was home...the only one he had ever had.

The small Corporal sighed wearily. He ground a fist into his tired eyes. Sleep had not found its way to the young man for several nights. He felt shaky, and unfocused. He yawned, then shook off the exhaustion that was threatening to overtake him. He mustn't let it show. It would only mean time in the infirmary, and that was the last place he wanted to be. The place reeked of fear and death. It was a place of depression, confusion, and hopelessness.

Blutch closed his eyes and shuddered again, wrapping his arms around himself. No, it wouldn't do him any good to end up there. He'd just have to rough it. Act like nothing was wrong. Especially around the Sargent. The Corporal smirked, casting a quick side glance toward his army's camp. The Sargent always watched his every move, and Blutch couldn't blame him for that. Over the years, he hadn't exactly given the Seargent any reason to trust him.

"He's probably watching me right now," he said to himself grumpily. "Guess I'll have to be real careful."

The Sargent stood with his arms crossed over his chest, sourly watching the small figure outside the camp. Around him, Union soldiers went about their business; some carrying crates, others cleaning their rifles, all staying clear of the irritable man in their midst.

Sargent Cornelius Chesterfield was a short tempered man, with a strong personality to match. He was much more sturdily built then most of the other men, and wasn't afraid to prove it. He was known for his quick temper and powerful punch. Not that many people ever dared to challenge him.

Despite these, rather less than charming, qualities, he was much respected by the men under his care. Chesterfield had an intense sense of justice, duty, and love for his country, which empowered him to seemingly face any obstacle with pure energy and raw courage. He loved the army with all his being. It was his life.

Today, however, the Sargent was in a foul mood. He glared, unaffected by the goings on around him, staring in cold, unswaying anger. The soldiers could hear him muttering darkly under his breath, and they flashed each other weary smiles. They all knew they could relax, knowing who the man's wrath was directed at.

It had started that morning, just like it did every morning...

The sound of a bugle filled the dawn air as soldiers rolled themselves from tangled beds of sheets and gear. Rushing into their uniforms to make it out into the camp for morning inspection.

With the first note, Chesterfield's eyes snapped open. He sat up immediately, preparing to shake his ever present companion beside him awake. He turned to do so, but was mildly surprised to see the bedraggled Corporal already up and half dressed.

"Blutch, what are you doing up so early?!" The Sargent exclaimed, annoyed that his companion had gotten up before him. "I usually have to drag you out of bed!"

"Well," Blutch responded, just as annoyed as he fumbled with his belt, "Today I saved you the trouble."

Chesterfield untangled himself from his resting place, his temper already beginning to flare up. So earily in the morning too.

"Heh," He grunted, as if it would settle the matter in his favor. "You should make it a habit."

Click. He heard the sound of Blutch's belt finally snap into place as he began to get dressed himself. Blutch grabbed his cap, shoving it unceremoniously onto his head, and stomped out of the tent without another word.

Chesterfield smiled to himself, taking the Corporal's silence as his angry submission to the Sargent's authority. He quickly finished dressing, fastening the belt without any trouble, and quickly marched outside.

The 22nd Calvary stood at stiff attention in the early morning light. Some stifled yawns and others struggled to finish buttoning a few stubborn buttons on their uniforms. The Sargent took his place in line, right beside the small Corporal under his leadership, giving Blutch a triumphant smirk as he did so. He saw the Corporal turn slightly red with temper, and than turned his attention to the approach of the superior officers. He didn't see the face that Blutch made in his direction.

Captain Stark walked up to the troop, sauntering like the Captain he truly was. He rested his hand on his sword at his side, stroking his fire-red beard with the other. He smiled with pride at the men before him.

Captain Stark was well liked by most everybody. He was kind-hearted, fair, and had the courage of twenty men; but he had one failing characteristic: the man was a lunatic. Or, at least, at times he seemed so. Oh, he followed orders, rushed to battle, and fought for his country, but at times he just seemed a bit...unstable.

He stood at attention in front of the ranks, returning their salutes sharply.

"Men," he began, standing like the dashing commander he believed he was, "I have good news."

The troop leaned forward expectantly, hoping, as always, to here that the war was over. Perhaps no one hoped this more than Corporal Blutch. His frustration over his annoying subordinate forgotten, he lost his stiff stance, looking at the Captain with interest.

"Today," Stark continued happily, "We shall charge the ranks of the rebels to continue our fight for freedom!" He beamed at them with pure pleasure. Yup, definitely unstable.

Chesterfield had felt Blutch lean forward in excitement, and then shrink back in utter depression at the news. The Sargent felt a slight twinge of sympathy.

"That is all," Stark called, "We move out in two hours!" With that, he turned and marched back to the Captain's tent.

"Fall out!"

The men dispersed to prepare for yet another brush with the enemy. A brush with death.

Chesterfield stood beside the Corporal. Blutch remained where he was, hands clenched at his sides. The Sargent felt the twinge again.

"Come on, Blutch," he said, trying to act unconcerned. "We have work to do."

Blutch turned, giving him a murderous glance and started to stomp away. Chesterfield felt the little sympathy vanish. Angry, he stepped forward, grabbing Blutch's wrist.

"Look," he said in frustration, "I know your upset, but guess what, we all are, so just deal with it!"

Blutch wrenched his arm out of Chesterfield's grasp irritably. "I am dealing with it," he growled dangerously, "Now LEAVE ME ALONE!"

Slightly startled by his companion's outburst, Chesterfield took a step back. The bystanders paused to watch the fight they knew was about to take place. The Sargent locked eyes with the little man, quivering with anger, in front of him. They stood like that for several moments, before the Corporal turned sharply and stomped away, pushing a few soldiers aside as he made his way out of camp. Chesterfield glared after him.

"I'll have you shot for insubordination!" He yelled, more as a parting shot than an actual threat. Blutch didn't respond as he marched, waving a dismissive hand in the air.

...

And there stood the Sargent, still unmoving from the spot, as he watched the Corporal's form returning. It had been nearly half an hour, but Chesterfield hadn't let Blutch out of his sight. He wanted to be sure Blutch wouldn't attempt an escape. He waited for the Corporal to be close enough for eye contact, before turning to the rest of his men.

"Ready your saddles, guys! We move out in an hour and a half!" He gave Blutch a meaningful look. "All of us!"

Blutch didn't respond. He was too tired to argue any more. He rolled his eyes at the Sargent and went into the tent to grab his gear. Not that I ever use it, he thought rebelliously.

He pushed back the canvas flaps to the tent, bursting in dramatically. No one was there to witness this; everyone had already gotten their stuff. The tent was empty.

The small Corporal grumbled as he made his way over to his messy pile of blankets that he called 'bed'. Anger rose in him as he began to attach his sword to his belt.

Another charge, he thought bitterly, another day of death and misery. His hands started shaking, making it hard for him to handle the weapon. Was there no end to this stupid war? Hadn't enough blood been shed? His hands shook harder.

"Oh, for goodness sake!" He cried, finally throwing the sword back onto the bed in anger. He regretted it immediately, as he suddenly felt a wave of dizziness sweep over him. Grabbing the fabric tent wall, he steadied himself, eyes closed as everything spun. It made him feel hot and sick. His heart was racing, he could feel it pounding in his chest.

As suddenly as it had started, the intense feeling went away. Blutch gulped in a few deep breaths of air, feeling everything return to normal. He wiped a shaky hand across his brow. The only remaining symptom was his fast heartbeat, but even that was slowly becoming stable again.

"I...I better not let that happen again," he said to himself weakly, "Especially in front of the Sargent..."

He felt exhausted, but he knew that if he complained to Chesterfield the Sargent would think he was just faking to get out of the charge...that or would send him to the infirmary. Neither option appealed to the Corporal.

"I..I'll just have to 'deal with it'." He smirked again, remembering that those were the words that Chesterfield had used only an hour ago.

Bending over carefully, he picked up his sword, attaching it to the belt quickly, lest the shaking begin again. Click! It snapped in place without any trouble.

Shaking off whatever visible traces of his ordeal were still lingering, he braced himself and pushed through the tent flaps.

"OOFH!"

Blutch ran smack into something standing just outside the tent. The force of the impact caused him to stumble back slightly. Rubbing his chest, were he had received the brunt of the obstacle's force, he looked up to see the red face of Sargent Chesterfield. Blutch felt his heart speed up slightly once more. He fervently hoped that the Sargent hadn't been standing there long, and had seen his little episode. His fears were not grounded, however, and he soon realized this as the Sargent pointed a finger toward the horse corral.

"BLUTCH! Go get Arabesque ready, and NO MORE FOOLING AROUND!"

Blutch backed away, nodding as he quickly ran off in the direction indicated. The Corporal knew better than to argue when the Sargent was in as bad a temper as that!

Chesterfield watched him fairly fly toward the horse pen. Blutch ducked and dodged as he swept through the crowd of soldiers, until he was lost from view. Chesterfield nodded in satisfaction, and turned to prepare the rest of his men for battle.


	2. The Child

Chesterfield sat upon his brown stallion, awaiting the call to charge. In front of him, Captain Stark glared at the sight below them.

At the bottom of the grassy hill, nestled in the valley, was a small town. Deserted and broken down, it resembled a ghost town, the very picture of desolation and destruction. It had contained a half-dozen houses, a church, and a small brick school house. At least, it had been brick...it was now little more than a smoldering pile of dust and rubble. The Confederates had already attacked the little village, chasing away its inhabitants and leveling most of the building to the ground.

Chesterfield saw Blutch squirm at his side. The Corporal seemed far more agitated than usual. Even Arabesque, Blutch's gray mere, seemed uneasy.

Far within the shadows of the decimated village, the grey coats of the Confederate army peeked, preparing to fight from behind the protection of the town's battered walls.

Blutch looked down at the valley in dismay. Another beautiful place lay in ruins. His heart filled with sadness, quickly followed by anger. Men, women, and children had once called that place their home. They had been forced to flee, leaving everything behind. Who knew were they were now. Homeless...helpless...

Another wave of dizziness swept over the Corporal, though not as severe as before. He closed his eyes tightly, breathing quickly and gripping Arabesque's mane to steady himself as he felt his heart rate skyrocket. The feeling quickly faded, and he opened his eyes again. He glanced around, noticing that Chesterfield was watching him. Turning slightly red, Blutch quickly looked away, focusing his attention back on the village.

Chesterfield gave him a puzzled look, and opened his mouth as if to speak, but then shrugged. Blutch was probably thinking of a way to get out of the charge, as usual. He'd have to keep an eye on him.

Stark gazed steadily out into space, posed in dramatic stillness as he sized up the small Confederate troop hiding in the village below. Sensing the time had come, Stark slowly drew his sword, the morning sun reflecting of it's polished blade. He raised it above his head, bearded face stern and serious. He took in a deep breath of the crisp morning air, before letting it out in a terrific bellow.

"CHAAAAARRRGE!"

THUD!

Chesterfield knew the sound. As he and every other loyal soldier launched their horses forward into the dangers of battle, he knew that Arabesque was lying in a heap behind him. Blutch had trained the old mare to faint at that one hollered word. The Sargent snarled in disgust. Blutch didn't have the courage, nor the will to fight! He was a coward, a disloyal little pipsqueak...at least, so Chesterfield thought every time he heard that familiar sound.

Too irritated to even glance back, Chesterfield rushed on ahead, adrenaline and anger coursing through his veins. He was slightly ahead of Stark now, and the Captain shot him an annoyed glance, like an actor cheated out of his star role.

In a flurry of confusion and a deafening thunder of hooves, the 22nd carvery headed for the village. A Confederate gun went off, followed by many others. In a tirade of yelling and shots, the Union army clashed with the oncoming Rebels.

...

Blutch struggled to push his grey horse off of him, muttering darkly. The old mare lay in a heap across his legs, eyes closed tightly, and tongue sticking limply out one side of her mouth.

Freeing one foot, and than the other, Blutch glared at the lazy monster he had created. Most days he would have been proud of the beasts fine example of his creative training, but today it was different. Absorbed in thought, Blutch had had no time to brace himself when the call to charge was given. In a flash, he dropped heavily to the ground, the full weight of the horse on top of him.

"Arabesque," he commanded angrily, "Get up! We have to go down there!"

The horse gave him a look of horror, like he'd gone out of his mind.

"Not into battle," he added quickly, "Just to get...a better look at the town."

Arabesque remained were she was, blinking stupidly, gazing at him. A moment went by...

"Fine!" Blutch growled, "Stay here, but I'm going!"

The horse lay it's head back down, as if to say she couldn't care less.

"Fine!" Blutch said again, turning as he stomped away, "But don't expect a carrot later!"

The horse took a bite of grass, chewing it thoughtfully as her master started towards the battle below.

...

Moving swiftly, the young Corporal made his way to a small forest nearby. If he stayed within its cover he would be able to pass fairly close to the village without being seen. The battle itself was taking place outside the town, in a trampled field of what once might have been for corn. Blutch could hear the thunder of hooves and the piercing explosion of gunshots from his hiding place. The Corporal grimaced. More bloodshed. When would this horror be over?

He felt that same, almost familiar, dizziness threaten to resurface, and quickly shut his eyes taking deep, calming breaths. This seemed to delay the usual severity of the attack; and it diminished at once. Reopening his eyes, he frowned as he began to make his way through the forest. This was beginning to get annoying. He couldn't put his life on hold every time he felt a little dizzy. Maybe he would go visit the doc when they returned to camp...if this continued.

Having effectively avoided the conflict, the Corporal finally reached a spot in the woods parallel to the village ruins. Looking about, he determined that it was safe, and in a agile bound, raced from the cover of the trees to the sad shadows of the eradicated metropolis.

The streets were littered with shoes, hats, books, and other homely goods. They lay in the dust, a depressing witness to the population's hasty and sudden departure. Bricks and splintered wood spilled out from several gaping holes in the sides of the two closest buildings.

Blutch slowly made his way along the various streets and alleys. He wasn't exactly sure what he expected to find, nor why he had felt the need to come to this place so strongly at all. Normally, he would have stayed with Arabesque, out of harms way. However, since he first set his eyes on the village, he had begun to feel uneasy. Now, with each wary step, that uneasiness grew.

There was no sign of life, or movement. All seemed dreadfully quiet. The rebels had apparently deemed it unnecessary to post sentries to guard their temporary 'base'. Not that there was anything left worth guarding.

The Corporal passed the abandoned homes, and what remained of the village church. Now he stood beside the skeletal remains of the smoldering schoolhouse. Smoke still sifted upwards from the charred wood. Unlike most of the other buildings, it showed no sign of cannon bombardment, only fire. It had literally been burned to the ground. It remained only a pile of rubble, a marker of what must have been the prize edition to such a small community.

A sudden sound caused Blutch to jump. In the deafening silence, the nearly inaudible noise seemed far louder then it truly was. A clatter...or a shuffle, followed by a small cry. Blutch leaned in closer, realizing with horror that it had come from the school wreckage. Rushing forward, the bluecoat started to dig into the debris. Some of the wood was still hot, burning his fingers as he grabbed them and threw them aside, but he didn't care. If there was someone beneath all that destruction, they would need help, and fast.

After moving a considerable amount of wood and stone, Blutch realized that there was a small alcove underneath, what very well may have once served as the basement to the schoolhouse. As he began to clear more away, a tiny hand reached from the darkness, latching onto his wrist, startling the poor Corporal terribly. It was a child's hand, and from the inky blackness below he could here a soft whimper. It finally sunk in what was going on. There was a child trapped under the schoolhouse!

Allowing the child to keep it's frightened grip on his arm, Blutch continued to clear away the mess with his free hand.

"It's alright," he said softly, trying to comfort the kid. "I'll get you out of there, just hang on."

The child didn't answer, but it's hold tightened, confirming that he had at least been heard.

As soon as the hole was large enough, Blutch, still held by the wrist, carefully eased himself into the dank cavity. It was terribly dark, and badly reeked of soot. Coughing the foul air out of his lungs, Blutch tried to get his eyes to adjust to the dark. Suddenly, the little hand left his wrist and he felt something latch onto his front, tightly. The child had him in a rigid embrace, nearly cutting off his air all together. He freed one of his arms from the desperate hug, and patted the kid's back uncomfortably. The youngster's shoulders shook in silent sobs, and the Corporal felt the awkwardness evaporate instantly.

He hugged back, whispering softly, "Sshhhh. It's alright. You're safe now. I'll get you out of here o.k.?"

He felt the little one nod, still wrapped firmly around his middle.

"But you'll have to let go," he added, gently. Reluctantly, the small arms recoiled and the hand grabbed his wrist once more. Taking the kid toward the opening, he carefully lifted the tyke up and through, following right after.

The brightness of the summer morning was painful after the dark recesses of the basement, and it took a moment before Blutch's eyes readjusted to the light of day. Blinking the fuzzy haze away, he glanced down to get a good look at the tiny person beside him. The Corporal was surprised to see that it was a little girl, who couldn't have been more than seven years old. She had red little curls of hair framing her sweet face, from which two bright blue eyes starred in fear. Her hand slipped from his as she recognized his uniform in horror.

It was not like the uniform that the soldiers who had attacked the town had wore, they had been grey, this was blue. However, it was a uniform of a military man, and the youngster's impression of such men was not a pleasant one.

She turned to run, but a night crying under a wreck of masonry, had left her exhausted and unbalanced. She fell to the ground with a strangled cry.

Blutch rushed to her side to help, stopping when she tried to shimmy away from him.

"It's alright," the Corporal said softly, "I wont hurt you. I want to help." She still looked reluctant. "My name is Blutch."

She starred at him a moment, then a small smiled began to creep into her face. "B-Blutch?" She asked, suppressing a giggle, "That's a funny name."

The soldier returned the smile, glad to see she was unharmed. "Yes," he said, with a grin, "I suppose it is a little...unusual."

He sat down on the ground beside her, and this time she didn't move away. "What's your name?"

"Clara," came the sweet reply.

"How did you end up down in that basement?"

Her frown returned. "I was hiding from the grey soldiers. They were attacking us," she said bitterly. "I was scared." Tears threatened to collect in her almond shaped eyes.

"Where were your parents? Your teacher? The other children?"

"I don't know," she cried, once again flinging herself around him.

"Oh..." Blutch coughed nervously, "Well, it's o.k., we'll find them." Those bright eyes turned up to him, pleadingly.

"We will?"

The Corporal gulped, "Sure we will...but right now we'd best get you somewhere safe."

He stood up, helping the little girl to her feet. She shivered slightly. It was summertime, but this morning the air was unusually crisp. Her clothes were torn and tattered, allowing the coolness to affect her more easily.

Unbuttoning his blue jacket, Blutch placed in on her shoulders. Despite his small size, the coat enveloped the child's features like a flowing robe. Without protest, Clara pulled her arms through the sleeves, glad to feel the warmth it provided.

Turning and crouching down with his back toward her, Blutch motioned for her to climb onto his back. With a squeal of joy, Clara jumped up, nearly knocking him off balance. With a soft grunt, the Corporal stood and began making his way back through the ruined village.

Clara remained silent for most of the walk, sadly taking in the destruction that had befallen her home. Soon they reached the forest, and the Corporal carefully made his way through the trees.

Curiosity getting the best of her, Clara finally spoke.

"Where are we going?"

"To my army's camp," her new friend replied, slightly out of breath. The kid didn't weigh much, but any burden grew heavy when carried for a long distance. "You'll be safe there."

"Are their other soldiers at your camp?'' Clara asked nervously," Like you?"

Blutch grinned, "Well, there are other soldiers, but none like me."

Clara giggled.

"No one there will hurt you," Blutch continued, "But all the same, lets try and keep you out of sight."

"Why?"

"I have to talk to someone first, before the general sees you. O.K.?"

Clara didn't quite understand that answer, but she had a very trusting spirit. "O.K." she said.

It would take them some time to make it back to camp by foot. By the quiet stillness, Blutch could tell the battle had long since ended. The field was empty, except for the motionless lumps he knew to be dead bodies from the fight. He made sure the little one on his back didn't see them, as he turned a little deeper into the forest. His arms and legs were starting to ache, but he couldn't put his burden down, she was probably too weak to walk. This was confirmed as he felt her body become slightly heavier as sleep overtook the little child on his back.


	3. Surprise for the Sergeant

The sergeant's mood was frightful. Ever since he had been released from the infirmary, he had been prowling the small city of tents, searching for the object of his fury. Soldiers parted as he stomped past, unfazed by his behavior. It was a common occurrence for the sergeant to hunt Corporal Blutch down and rent his frustrations on the small military man. Everyone understood Chesterfield's anger, and accepted it as part of the camp's life.

Chesterfield rubbed his sore and heavily bandaged arm, were a stray bullet had managed to graze him during the brief battle that morning. If he was truthful with himself, he had really been quite lucky. The infirmary was currently full of less fortunate souls. The sergeant knew this better than anyone, since he had just finished searching through them all.

Chesterfield hadn't seen Blutch since the charge, which could only mean one of two things: one he was off causing trouble, or two, he had somehow ended up in the infirmary. Angered by the first possibility and frightened by the second, the sergeant had made sure to check each sickbed for his missing friend. Satisfied and relieved at not finding his corporal there, he was left to wander about the camp, angry and determined to chew Blutch out for yet another show of cowardice. He'd find that little pipsqueak, and when he did, the other soldiers had better just look away.

...

The sun was just beginning to set as Blutch stumbled into camp. He hadn't realized just how far the village had been from the base. Now tired and stiff from his small burden, he slipped in the back way, quite and unnoticed. Clara still slept soundly on his back, catching up on her much needed sleep.

Making it to the tent that he shared with a number of other men, including the sergeant, Blutch peeked inside. Relief washed over him when he found it empty. The other occupants of the tent would be up late tonight. Sleep never came easy after a battle, and they would be up, telling stories for most of that night. Sneaking inside, Blutch carefully slid Clara off his back and into his bed, still wrapped snugly in his jacket. He smiled as she sighed in satisfaction, curling deeper into his sheets. She was fairly well hidden. Even if someone did chance to walk in, they would have to be specifically looking to spot her.

Nodding with approval, Blutch left the tent in search of the one person in the world he didn't feel like seeing: Sergeant Cornelius Chesterfield.

...

The Sergeant in question was still wandering through the camp. His anger had long since been replaced by worry for his friend's safety. Despite his disdain for the little deserter, Chesterfield really cared about the Corporal. If anything were to ever happen to Blutch, Chesterfield didn't know what he would do.

As the sun had begun to set, the Sergeant's worry intensified. Of course, Blutch might be hiding from him, but that was usually not the Corporal's way. He usually showed up right after the battle, to express himself and his thoughts on the fight. He had not done so today, which was unsettling. To make matters worse, Arabesque had wandered into camp around noontime, without her cocky rider.

Now, as the sun sank lower behind the tree line and the first few stars began to appear, Chesterfield began to panic. He began blaming himself for his harsh treatment of his only true friend, all previous anger forgotten.

The Sergeant rounded a tent, sadly staring into space, when someone short ran strait into his chest. The impact barely affected him, but the other fellow stumbled back, dazed.

"Blutch!" Chesterfield cried happily, about to hug the smaller bluecoat, when his anger quickly returned. "Blutch, why you little-" He grabbed the front of the Corporal's white shirt, nearly pulling Blutch right off the ground.

"S-Sergeant, may I speak with you, please? Privately?"

The question was just above a whisper, and, had the Sergeant not been merely inches from the corporal's face, he might not have heard it.

"What?" he asked, taken aback by his companion's calm demeanor.

Blutch glanced to the side, making sure no one was watching. "May I speak with you...in our tent?"

He felt his feet make contact with the ground again as the Sergeant set him down roughly. Chesterfield gave him a confused look, then nodded. He gripped Blutch's arm and headed for their temporary quarters. Once inside, he let go and stood, arms crossed over his chest, waiting to hear what the corporal had to say.

Blutch didn't look him in the eyes, which was slightly unusual for the defiant little soldier. He kept glancing to the corner, were his bed was.

"Well?" Chesterfield asked, impatiently.

"Uh...Sergeant?" Blutch began slowly, twisting his cap in his hands, nervously, "I...I found something, during the battle...um.." He paused, unsure how he should continue.

"Well, what was it?" Chesterfield growled, curiosity being the only thing keeping him from strangling the man before him.

To late to turn back now, Blutch thought, twisting his cap harder. "Uh...how are you with kids, Sergeant?"

Chesterfield's arms dropped to his sides. "What are you talking about?" he asked, but his paling face indicated that he was beginning to fit the pieces together.

Walking over to his bed roll, the Corporal knelt down and gently uncovered the slumbering girl. Her hair lay about her head and shoulders as she breathed peacefully. She looked like a little angel.

Chesterfield turned white as the child was reveled. All anger forgotten, he slowly made his way over and squatted beside Blutch. He reached out a hand to touch a red curl as if to assure himself she was real. He pulled it back when she stirred slightly in her sleep.

"Where was she?" the sergeant whispered.

"In that decimated village," Blutch answered, his voice softer then Chesterfield had ever heard it. "She was trapped beneath the schoolhouse ruins." He paused to look back down at her. "I don't know how she survived, Sergeant, the building was practically burned to the ground."

Chesterfield noticed the blue uniform jacket that was loosely wrapped around the little figure. He looked back at the Corporal who was kneeling next to him, gazing at the child. Cornelius saw for the first time Blutch's appearance. He was in his white button down shirt, confirming that it was his jacket the child wore. The white cloth was covered in soot, as were his hands. Tiny red marks on his fingers caused the sergeant to lean forward to get a better look. He was slightly startled to find it was blood. Not much, just a little on the Corporal's finger tips and palms, but it was their none the less.

"What happened?" the sergeant asked, trying not to sound too concerned. His voice seemed to pull Blutch from deep thought.

"Hm?" He glanced down at his hands, looking confused at the irritated burns until he remembered. "Oh, I had to dig a bit to get to her." He shrugged, "Guess some of the wood was still alight."

"You should have the doc wrap them," Chesterfield said, pausing when he realized Blutch had turned his attention away from him and back to the girl. "Once we figure out what to do with the girl," he finished.

Blutch snapped his attention back to him. "What are we gonna do with her, Sergeant?" There was a bit of a protective edge to the Corporal's voice. Chesterfield began to feel uncomfortable.

"Well," the sergeant began slowly, "the safest place for her would be the orphanage." Chesterfield regretted his words at once. He always forgot that Blutch had grown up in an orphanage himself and that his experiences there had been very unpleasant.

Blutch's face turned very pale. "No!" he hissed threateningly, shaking his head.

"Blutch-"

"I said 'no'."

Chesterfield could feel his own anger rising. "Listen," he growled in a low voice, "she can't stay here. She needs to be put somewhere out of harms way. Not all orphanages are bad like the one you were sent to, Blutch!"

That was the last straw for the Corporal. He hated that his sergeant knew so much about his past. He promised himself he'd never forgive Doc Harding. Blutch jumped to his feet in rage, the tiny slumbering child forgotten as his voice rose to a yell.

"YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE IN ONE OF THOSE PLACES! I'M NOT GOING TO LET ANYONE SEND CLARA TO AN ORPHANAGE! SHE'S BEEN THROUGH ENOUGH, WITHOUT ABANDONMENT BEING THROWN IN ON TOP OF IT ALL!"

His hands were beginning to shake again, but he was too worked up to care. All the anger and resentment that he had had pent up inside from his years in the orphanage were suddenly released in his shouted words, mixed with an almost overwhelming anxiety to keep Clara from the same fate. Suddenly he felt dizzy, placing a hand to his head as he abruptly gripped his startled sergeant's shoulder to steady himself.

"Mr. Blutch?"

The tiny voice cut into the corporal's fuzzy mind like a blade, effectively snapping him out of his dizzy spell. He looked down to see a bleary eyed Clara rubbing sleep from her eyes. She started to sit up when her gaze settled on the sergeant. She let out a startled cry and tried to scoot away. Blutch was kneeling beside her at once.

"No, no, Clara!" he said soothingly, "It's alright."

She latched onto him at once, making herself as small as possible as she clung to him like leach. She gazed up at Chesterfield's imposing form for a moment or two.

"Where are we?" she asked nervously at last.

"In my army's camp," Blutch replied, trying to ease her anxiety before her tight grip cut off his air supply completely. She seemed to relax slightly. She eyed the sergeant again.

"Is he one of your friends?"

The question was badly timed to say the least. Chesterfield was his friend, his only friend in fact, but it was the last thing that Blutch felt for the sergeant at the moment. Had he been in the company of anyone else, he probably would have said no, just to make the sergeant mad, but with Clara...he didn't want to scare her.

"Yes," he said, giving his sergeant a meaningful glare that was completely lost on the little girl.

Clara got to her feet and held out her delicate hand in a formal manner as she piped, "Clara Catitdel. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

Chesterfield smiled as he shook her hand gently, his larger hand enveloping her own. "Nice to meet you Miss Catitdel. I am Sergeant Chesterfield. May I be the first to welcome you to the Union Army."

Blutch rolled his eyes with a smirk. Chesterfield sent him a look, but again the child spoke.

"Oh, you are not really the first since I met Mr. Blutch first. He saved me." She lovingly slipped her hand into the Corporal's, causing him to blush. "He's going to help me find my family."

All the pink went out of Blutch's cheeks as she grinned up at him. Chesterfield looked started by her words, before his face took on a smirk.

"Oh he did, did he?" he said with exaggerated interest, crossing his arms over his chest. He shifted his gaze to the corporal who, to his amusement, looked very uncomfortable.

"Yes, Sir," Clara continued. "He told me he would. Right after he rescued me." She once again trapped him in a crushing hug around his middle, causing Blutch to wince and then, after a moment, chuckle.

He looked up to meet Chesterfield's gaze. "Guess I did."


	4. That Night

Clara squealed in joy as Chesterfield lifted her up onto Arabesque, right in front of Blutch, who was already mounted. She latched herself to the horse's flowing grey mane and swung her legs back and forth against it's sides in excitement. Blutch shifted her carefully to ensure she would be safe for the ride, as he gathered the reigns and checked the supplies behind him.

Chesterfield stepped into his stallion's stirrup, effortlessly swinging over and into his saddle. The sergeant still couldn't believe they were actually going to do this. It was crazy! Of course, he couldn't remember one single day of his life in the army that hadn't been crazy.

The night before, when Chesterfield had first met Clara, Blutch had brought Clara and gone to see General Alexander. It was a miracle in itself that the corporal had even been given audience with the busy general. But it seemed General Alexander had a soft spot for children, and, with some heartfelt words from Blutch mixed with the pleading gaze of Clara, the general had soon granted Blutch and Chesterfield leave to help the little girl find her family. It would not be hard to follow their trail. In fact, tracks, mixed with left behind debris and belongings, would make the task fairly easy.

"Ready?"

The voice startled Cornelius out of thought. He glanced to his right to see a smiling corporal and a beaming child atop Blutch's grey mare, all ready and rearing to go. Nodding, the sergeant gave a click and a flick to the reigns and they started off. Soon, the camp was out of sight, and the wide countryside was all around them.

It was another cool morning. The fog gave a slight chill to the air, but a peeking shade of blue above it promised that it would soon clear, bringing fourth a beautiful day. Having left camp quite early, they had to stop for breakfast, before continuing on their way.

Clara kept up a steady stream of conversation the entire time, and, though Chesterfield personally didn't mind, he was surprised at how good Blutch was with children. He conversed with her at her level, but not in that annoying voice so many adults fall into when addressing the very young. He treated her as if they were the same age. No question was too unimportant, no conversation too boring. Chesterfield smiled to himself as he traveled, listening to their ceaseless chatter.

"Where did you find your horse, Mr. Blutch?" Clara asked, giving the mare beneath her a gentle pat. Arabesque whinnied with pleasure.

"Well," Blutch said with a chuckle, remembering the incident. "It's more like she found me. I had just joined the army, and was looking for a good horse." He leaned over and also gave Arabesque a loving tap. "I was sitting in the corral when I felt a nudge on my shoulder. She took to me right away and, well, here we are."

Clara smiled at the thought. Suddenly she became serious.

"How long have you been in the army, Mr. Blutch?"

The corporal though for a moment. "Nearly three years." Gosh, has it really been that long? he thought to himself. For the first time since their trip had begun, the two fell completely silent. Chesterfield began to feel uncomfortable in the quiet. He waited, hoping that Clara would come up with a new question. He immediately wished he hadn't hoped for such a thing when Clara's voice, small and quiet, spoke softly behind him.

"Have you ever seen someone die?"

Chesterfield winced as another long pause followed. He suddenly realized that he no longer heard the clip clop of the grey mare. Arabesque had stopped. Blutch had stopped her.

Bringing his own steed around he turned to see what had happened. What he saw shook him to the core. There the two sat, with Clara sitting in a twisted way so that she could gaze up at her friend, Corporal Blutch. Her face was serious and sad. It was like all the compassion in the world was beaming from her into the soul of the man sitting behind her.

Chesterfield was startled by her sudden solemn expression, but not nearly as startled as he was when he shifted his gaze to Blutch. The young corporal was rigid, tense beyond anything the sergeant had ever seen in the small soldier. He was very pale and he appeared to be shaking slightly. Chesterfield's mind brought back the night before. When Blutch had yelled, he had become much the same way. He really looked terrible.

The two sat with their eyes locked. Blutch trying to slow his racing heart, and Clara awaiting an answer to her question. The silence was unbearable. Finally, Blutch answered.

"Yes," he said shakily. "Yes, I have."

"Was it someone you cared about?"

"I...I..I think we better stop for the night." He began to slide of of his horse, clumsily because of his dizziness, which did not go unnoticed by his sergeant. "It's starting to get dark."

Blutch was relieved when he found Clara easy to distract. As soon as he lifted her down from Arabesque she began to explore the clearing they had stopped in.

Chesterfield was about to insist they continue, as there was still an hour or so left of day light, but then he remembered that Clara was no doubt tired from riding all day. They had't even stopped for lunch, eating on horseback.

"Alright," he agreed, and dismounted gracefully.

Clara was a short distance away, inspecting an old tree stump.

"Stay within our sight!" Blutch called, giving the glade a quick once over for anything dangerous. Clara smiled at him and gave a cheerful wave, before chasing after a frog that had just emerged from the rotten stump.

Blutch gave a smile and turned to start unloading Arabesque, when he bumped right into a, by now, familiar barrier. The impact again nearly throwing him to the ground, he looked up at his sergeant in annoyance.

"You know," he grumbled, regaining his balance, "I'm starting to think every time I turn around I'm gonna run into you. You really need to stop popping up in odd places." He started to untie his satchel from his grey mare.

Chesterfield gave a chuckle before his face became more serious.

"Are you alright?"

Blutch paused while reaching for the supplies on Arabesque's back. He felt his heart skip a nervous beat, as he turned to face the sergeant. He looked up at him. It was funny how Blutch never really noticed how much smaller he was than Chesterfield. He figured his tough personality made up for it. But there were times when he felt small; vulnerable. That was when he realized how easy it would be for the world to crush him.

"Yeah..." he lied, turning back to his task. "I'm fine. Why?"

Chesterfield looked honestly concerned. "Well," he began, "it's just that you, well...haven't quite been yourself lately." He noticed Blutch pause again. "Is something wrong?"

Blutch looked annoyed. "No, nothing's wrong."

The sergeant's concern transformed into anger. Leaping forward he grabbed the surprised corporal by the shirt and lifted the young soldier until they were eye-level.

"Look, Blutch, I know you're lying!" he growled dangerously. "I want the truth! The real, honest to goodness truth! Do you here me?! And THAT'S AN ORDER!"

He lowered Blutch down with a thump. He crossed his arms over his chest expectantly.

To say the corporal was startled by his sergeant's temper would be an understatement. It was very rare that Chesterfield intimidated Blutch, but every once in a while...

Blutch grumbled while smoothing his now badly winkled clothes. After a moment he sighed. "Fine. I haven't been feeling well."

Concern resurfaced on the sergeant's features. "How so?"

_Might as well tell him_, he thought to himself. _And I don't really feel all that good_. "Dizzy spells," he answered, then added, "Very bad dizzy spells."

Chesterfield frowned. "Any other symptoms?"

Blutch thought for a moment. "Well," he began slowly, "I start to feel kind of hot and sick." He paused. "My heart beats real fast too."

"How long has this been happening?"

"A week."

"A WEEK?! WHY DID'T YOU TELL ME?!"

Blutch gave his a frustrated glare. "You're not my mother, I don't have to tell you anything!"

Chesterfield felt his temper rising again, but then took a deep breath instead, choosing to ignore the comment. "How many have you had?"

Again Blutch paused, thinking back through the week. Finally he said, "I had a few small ones, barely noticeable, at the very beginning of the week. Yesterday was when I had the first bad one. When I was in our tent, gathering my gear...before I ran into you."

Chesterfield nodded, recalling only then how pale the corporal had been when he emerged from the tent. He mentally kicked himself for not checking to see if he was alright. "You also had one last night in the tent again, didn't you? When you grabbed my arm to steady yourself?"

The corporal blushed slightly. "Yes," Blutch replied, "And there was one before that one. When we were awaiting the order to charge near the village where I found-" Suddenly his eyes widened. "Clara!"

He began to glance about him frantically, but there was no sign of the girl. She was no where in sight. Blutch cursed under his breath.

"I told her to stay in sight!" he cried, drawing his pistol from it's holster and cocking it. A terrible feeling of dread was beginning to coil in the pit of his stomach. "She could be in danger! Come on!" He took off into the woods near where the child had last been seen. He could hear the footfalls of the sergeant behind him as he ran through the forest regardless of stone or bush.

Chesterfield tried his best to keep up, but desperation and fear had lent a speed to his companion that the sergeant just couldn't match. Panting and wheezing, he did his best to keep the pace, but before long Blutch was gone from sight. Slowing to a tired trot, Chesterfield noticed the trail his partner had left behind. It would be easy to follow, as Blutch had flattened most of the vegetation in his wild dash through the foliage.

The sergeant continued at a slower, yet steady pace, following the trail, and hoping that nothing bad would happen to his two travelling companions between then and when he found them. Fear gripped his heart when the tranquil silence was shattered by a blood curdling scream followed immediately by the sharp, resounding echo of a pistol gun shot.

Throwing cation to the wind, Chesterfield broke into a mad run. Not caring whether he followed Blutch's trail or not, he only followed the direction the two sounds had come from. It wasn't long before he broke out of the dense forest into yet another clearing. Gun drawn and cocked he swung it from left to right, scanning the area. The first thing that caught his eye was a dark, monstrous shape laying not five feet to his right. Furred and straggled, he recognized it at once: a grizzly. Leveling his weapon at the beast, he did his best to keep his aim steady. He stood, wide eyed, legs apart, and breathing heavily.

He stood that way for a moment or two, frozen in fear, tense and rigid. The creature did not move. In fact, it didn't appear to be breathing. Chesterfield slowly lowered his pistol. The grizzly was already dead.

He jumped slightly when he realized something was pulling frantically at his pant leg. Looking down he saw Clara clinging to him, trying to get his attention. The sergeant felt a twinge of guilt when he realized she might have been there for longer then he knew. That he had just been to tense to notice her. Her eyes were wide and she was shaking. Tears slid down her little rosy cheeks as she tried to pull him in the opposite direction.

"MR. SERGEANT!" she cried, "PLEASE...PLEASE HELP!"

She grabbed his hand and dragged him forward, going around the dead bear at a distance. Chesterfield felt fear rise in him again as Clara let go of his hand and ran forward to stand beside Blutch. The corporal was kneeling in the grass, shaking violently and gasping for breath.

"PLEASE, MR. SERGEANT!" she sobbed, "YOU HAVE TO HELP HIM!"


	5. Panic Attack

Blutch had run like a madman through the leaves, bushes, twigs and stones. Even when the sticks and thorns pricked him as he rushed by, he didn't notice. All that mattered to him was finding Clara and making sure she was safe. The corporal had become very fond of the little red head, and the thought of losing her was unbearable. As he ran his ears suddenly picked up a faint cry. _That's_ _Clara!_, his mind screamed, as he quickly headed towards the sound. He no longer heard Chesterfield behind him, and realized whatever he was about to face, he was about to face alone. Mentally steeling himself for a confrontation, he suddenly found himself in a clearing. No amount of mental preparation could have prepared him for what he saw. Clara lay on her side, rolled up in a terrified ball as a huge, seething grizzly stood above her, ready to tear her to shreds.

"Hey!" Blutch yelled, forgetting for a moment in his fear that he held a gun in his hand. Instead he picked up a large stone and, with incredible accuracy, flung it at the bear with all his might. He hit it square in the face. The beast reared back with a roar of pain. Forgetting about the quivering child beside it, the monster turned and started to run full speed toward the horrified corporal.

Blutch saw he was in trouble, but his mind was too numb to do anything about it. The sight of Clara about to be killed by a bear had risen such a terror in his heart that his mind had practically drawn a blank. Throwing the stone had been more an impulse then a plan. And now, coming towards him, at an incredible speed, was the very image of raging death itself. The beast was mad with anger and pain.

Clara uncurled herself to see what was happening. When she looked up, the sight caused her to scramble to her feet in terror. The grizzly was quickly drawing close to her friend, but Blutch stood motionless, the gun in his hand hanging uselessly at his side.

Clara didn't know what to do. Her friend was about to die! She didn't want to watch, but she couldn't look away. She wanted to yell, but she found it hard to even whisper. The beast was only three yards from the corporal when Clara finally gained control of her voice. All the terror she felt, the shear horror that was boiling within her,was released in an ear drum shattering scream. It burst forth with such force that it seemed to echo for miles.

The piercing sound broke Blutch from his shock. The bear was practically on top of him, and with a lucky shot, he instinctively squeezed the trigger of his pistol, firing and hitting the monster in the chest, killing it instantly. It fell in full stride, sliding slightly in the grass, coming to rest only a few feet in front of him.

Clara ran forward, joy mixing with concern as she ran toward her friend. But before she could reach him, Blutch's hand slowly released his pistol, and it fell to the ground. He had turned deathly pale and shivers were starting to wrack his small frame. Clara made it to his side just as he collapsed to the ground, trembling violently and gasping for air.

The child didn't know what to do. She tried to help him, but he seemed to not hear or see her. Instead he gripped the grass beneath him, struggling to breath.

A sound behind her caused Clara to start. She turned around, terrified that it might be another wild animal. As Chesterfield burst into the clearing, gun drawn, she felt an overwhelming sense of relief. She quickly stood and ran to the sergeant, tears streaming down her face. She grabbed a hold of his pants and gave a gentle tug, but he didn't move. He seemed transfixed by the sight of the dead grizzly in front of him, not noticing the little girl.

Clara knew Blutch needed help and fast. Pulling harder, and giving a cry, she finally managed to get the man's full attention. Chesterfield looked down at her, his face filled with confusion, and perhaps surprise. He noticed she was sobbing, but Clara gave him no chance to speak.

"MR. SERGEANT!" she cried, "PLEASE...PLEASE HELP!"

The sergeant's face filled with concern at once, and he allowed her to drag him to the other side of the bear. Clara let go of his hand and ran forward, gripping hold of Blutch's shaking shoulders while sending the sergeant a pleading look.

"PLEASE, MR. SERGEANT!" she sobbed, "YOU HAVE TO HELP HIM!"

Chesterfield looked petrified. He stood in shock for a moment before rushing forward and kneeling beside his friend.

"What happened?" he demanded, checking his partner for any sign of injury. Blutch's breathing hitched and gasped as his attack continued. Clara realized the sergeant was asking her, not the corporal.

"H-he saved me from th-the bear," she whimpered. "H-he shot i-it. It almost g-got him."

"But it didn't get him?" It was more of statement then a question. Clara nodded.

"He shot it be-before it re-reached him. But th-then he just fell down." She gave the sergeant a worried look. "I-is he going to be alright?"

Chesterfield didn't answer her. Instead he gently took hold of the corporal's shoulders and leaned him back so that Blutch was sitting rather than kneeling. Blutch gripped his sleeve tightly and wouldn't let go. He looked frightened. In fact, he looked absolutely terrified. Chesterfield thought back to the conversation he had had with the corporal before this whole mess started.

_Dizziness_, _shivering_, _feeling _'_hot and_ _sick_', _fast_ _heartbeat_..._hmmm_, the sergeant though, _that_ _sounds_ _an_ _awful_ _lot_ _like_ _a_-

"Panic attack," Chesterfield realized out loud. "He's having a panic attack!" Leaning forward he said gently, "Blutch? Blutch, listen to me. You're safe. It's alright."

"C-can't...breath!" the corporal gasped, his hold on Chesterfield's uniform cuff tightening. He held a hand to his chest, struggling for air.

"Yes," the sergeant answered, kindly but firmly, "I know. If you calm down, it will become easier to get air."

Clara came around to the other side of her frightened friend and gazed at him worriedly. Shifting her eyes back and forth between him and Chesterfield.

Even in his frightened state Blutch knew what the sergeant said was true. The danger was over. He and Clara were safe. The bear was dead. But somehow his body just didn't want to respond the way he wanted it to. He felt dizzy and sick, like he had a fever, and the shivering was far beyond his control to stop. He didn't realize he had a hold of Chesterfield's sleeve, but it was a subconscious source of comfort nonetheless. He let the sergeant's words sink in, and after a moment or so, he felt his heartbeat start to slow.

Chesterfield noted with satisfaction that Blutch's breathing had become less ragged. He gave the corporal a friendly pat on the shoulder, sure that the worst of the attack was over, before glancing about the glade.

It was a nice place; calm; quiet. But the large, still mountain of fur that lay in the middle of the clearing caused Cornelius to shudder. Realizing that the sight might also cause Blutch the same, if not more distress, he decided it would be helpful to the corporal if they left.

"Blutch, I think we should go back to camp." He noticed the now dwindling daylight. "It'll be dark soon." Blutch was still shaking badly, but his breathing was more even and he no longer gasped to fill his lungs. "Do you think you can make it?"

For the first time since the sergeant had arrived beside him, Blutch's eyes seemed to focus on Cornelius fully. He tried to get the lingering shivers under control, with minimal luck, before nodding wearily.

"I-I'll try to, Sergeant."

The sergeant nodded approvingly. "I'll give you a hand if you need it."

"So will I," came Clara's voice beside him, beaming with relief and encouragement.

It turned out Blutch _did_ need the help. He was terribly unsteady on his feet, though he did manage to stay upright. He still held firmly to Chesterfield's arm, and as they began to trek back through the forest, leaving the grizzly's still form behind, Clara gently slipped her hand in his free one.

By the time they made it back to their camp, it was fully dark, and the stars were beginning to shine in the vast expanse of space above them. Setting Blutch somewhere safe with Clara to keep him company, Chesterfield began to build a fire and cook some stew. After getting some food into both his two travelling companions, Chesterfield went to wash out the fire-kettle. When he returned, he found that Blutch and Clara had both fallen asleep. Side by side, with Clara's little red-curled head leaning against the corporal's arm, they snoozed by the fire, backs against a log. Chesterfield smiled to himself as he gently covered them with an extra blanket from their pack. Then, unrolling his own mat, the sergeant lay down upon it, his pistol within easy reach. Several minutes later, his snores joined the gentle breathing of the other two.

**Panic attacks can be pretty scary. I've only ever had one severe attack, about two months ago. I shook like crazy, could barely stand, it was hard to breath, and my heart beat was very fast. I felt like I was in danger, like I had to run away, when, in fact, nothing was wrong. I still to this day don't know what triggered it. Mine lasted about a half hour before I was completely back to normal. Good thing I had a friend there to calm me down.**


	6. The Abandoned Wagon

The morning song of summertime birds broke the silence of early dawn. Blutch opened his eyes slowly, blinking the sleep from them as he shifted uncomfortably. He felt a heavy weight slid against his shoulder, and jolted fully awake, afraid of what it might be. He was relieved to see the still slumbering child when he glanced down. She was limp and breathing peacefully, smiling as she leaned into the warmth of his arm. The corporal couldn't help smiling at the tender sight.

He was about to go back to sleep when the events of the previous night flashed through his mind. He felt a slight panic begin to build up within him, but he managed to swallow it back down. He was safe. Scared silly, but safe. However, he knew he wouldn't be going back to sleep, so he carefully shimmied out from under the blanket, guiding Clara's head gently back against the log behind them. She sighed softly, but then settled back down again.

Stretching the achiness from his joints, Blutch looked around to take better stock of his surroundings.

They were back in their camp. A fire pit was smoldering, the fire long gone out, with only a wispy billow of light smoke slowly floating into the morning air. A recently washed pot lay leaned against a rock not to far off, drying. It brought back to Blutch the vague memory of eating stew the night before. If he was truthful with himself, he would have admit that he didn't remember much of the trip back to their glade. And what he did remember was hazy.

Glancing about once more, he noticed another bed roll by the fire pit. It was empty, but the ruffled sheets indicated that it had been slept in.

_Must_ _be_ _the_ _Sergeant's_, he thought to himself, looking around. _But_ _where_ _is_ _he_?

His question was answered when Chesterfield casually strolled back into the clearing, a few birds' eggs in his hand. When he saw Blutch he looked happy to see him, but underneath the corporal could still see a small remnant of the concern that had been so evident the night before.

Setting the eggs down in a safe spot, he turned and walked up to Blutch, a friendly smile on his face.

"I hope you aren't too sore this morning," he chuckled. "The two of you fell asleep so fast last night, and, well, I didn't have the heart to wake you." His smile faltered slightly. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

Chesterfield frowned. "Now let's not go through this again, Blutch," he said flatly. "There's no use pretending it didn't happen. I need to know how you feel so that I can help."

"I don't need anyone's help," the corporal muttered darkly. Now that his attack was over, Blutch felt terribly embarrassed, to say the least. He hated when anyone saw any weakness in him, especially the sergeant. _But he_ _is_ _right_, he thought, glowering down at his feet.

"I'm just a little tired," he added, running a hand over his face.

Cornelius nodded. "That's not unusual after a panic attack."

"Panic attack?" Blutch repeated, not remembering that part of last evenings' events. "How do you know that is what that was?"

"My father used to suffer from them occasionally. It's not terribly uncommon in military men. Stress of battle." Chesterfield frowned. "Which is what confuses me. While last night's attack can be easily explained, I don't think I can say that for the others. I mean, it's not as if you actually participate in the war very often..."

Blutch glared at him. "I've fought before!"

"Yes, but not very often. Your attacks must be triggered by something else." He shrugged, "Though panic attacks can occur for no reason at all. Do you have any idea what might be causing them?"

Blutch had a pretty good notion of what the problem was. Every time he had had an attack it had happened after he had been emotionally upset. It was war related. Not because he was suffering from battle horrors, but because he hated and feared the horrors that resulted from the war itself. He hated bloodshed. It seemed so pointless. He felt trapped in a world of muskets and cannons and death, a world he never wanted to be a part of in the first place, but now could not escape. When the war had first started, it was the general belief by all that it would only last a few weeks. But as the days stretched into years, three long, blood-washed years, his hope had faded, and he began to wonder if it would ever come to an end.

But Blutch didn't want to admit that to the sergeant. Chesterfield wasn't his psychologist, and he certainly didn't want the sergeant's sympathy. It was bad enough that Chesterfield held pity for his friend's tragic childhood. Blutch didn't want the sergeant to know his fears, especially when he denied to acknowledgement that they existed even to himself.

As for the attack the night before, he wasn't sure what had caused it to be so severe. It was most likely a combination of multiple reasons. After all, seeing Clara about to be sliced through, coupled with the bear's attack on him, added to his narrow escape and the shooting of the monster was bound to trigger his attack. He found he was angry with himself for letting anyone see him in such a state.

He looked back up at the sergeant and shook his head. "No," he lied, "I have no idea what triggered it."

Chesterfield didn't believe a word of it, but he nodded. _He'll_ _tell_ _me_ _when_ _he's_ _ready_, the sergeant thought to himself. Out loud he asked:

"Hungry?"

The corporal nodded enthusiastically. "I'll wake Clara." He left to go do so while Cornelius began to prepare the eggs. An hour later found them on the trail once again with the little one talking excitedly. It was another beautiful day, and the wondrous sights forever captivated the child's imagination.

"Ohhh!" She sighed in awe, "Look at that Mr. Blutch!" She pointed a delicate hand toward a patch of colorful wild flowers. "Aren't they lovely!" She folded her hands over her heart with total and comprehensible joy. Blutch chuckled behind her as he steered Arabesque around the brightly flora.

"You don't get out much do you?" he said with a laugh.

Clara twisted her neck so she could see his face. She smiled before turning forward once more.

"Daddy and Mommy never let me out of town. They were worried that I'd get into trouble." Blutch saw her shoulders slump slightly. "But I guess the trouble came to us anyway."

She was silent for a moment, before she perked up again. "But at least I have you guys to keep me safe. Right, Mr. Blutch?"

"Right." He glanced around for a moment before taking the chance to ask some questions of his own. "What are your parents' names?"

"Caroline and Wilford Catitdel," she answered at once. "Daddy owned the town grocery."

"Have you any brothers or sisters?" came the sergeant's voice ahead of them.

Clara shook her head, but then answered out loud when she realized Chesterfield wouldn't be able to see her do so. "No. It's just me."

She saw Cornelius nod. "Same here. Just me, Father and Mother."

"And you?"

Blutch knew the question was directed at him. He really liked Clara, but he wished she would stop asking such personal inquiries. She was waiting for his answer.

"Just me," he said, and left it at that with no farther explanation. Clara didn't notice the tightness to his voice, but Chesterfield did, and understood. Before the sergeant could change the subject, Clara squeaked:

"What's that over there?"

The two soldiers looked and saw something not to far off. It appeared to be a wagon. Curious, they brought their horses over to it and both men dismounted to get a better look. Clara watched them from her perch on Arabesque's back.

Chesterfield knelt down to inspect the wagon closely. "Hmmm," he said, rubbing his jaw, "The wheel seems to be broken. Axle's snapped almost in two. Whoever was driving this thing sure was in a hurry."

Blutch grunted in agreement as he climbed inside the wagon's back. It was pretty much empty, except for a few crates and a tattered blanket. He opened one of the crates to find some vegetables. They were beginning to go bad, indicating that it had been a few days since their abandonment. He winkled his nose and was about to climb back outside when something caught his attention. A small ray of light from a tear in the wagon's canvas caused something on the floor to sparkle. Reaching down, the corporal dusted of what appeared to be a heart shaped, golden locket. It had a little clasp on the side, allowing it to open. Inside were two pictures, one on either side of the locket's sides. The first was the image of a handsome young man with his arms around what must have been his wife. They were smiling and the mother's hair was a brilliant red hue. But it was the other picture was what caused the corporal's jaw to drop.

There, smiling out from the picture at him with light blue eyes, was the curly, red framed face of Clara Catitdel.


	7. The Locket

Chesterfield was just about to jump up into his saddle again, having found nothing of any interest around the cart, when suddenly a small yelp filled the air. It wasn't very loud, but Cornelius had good ears, and he had been very alert since the night before.

Fearing something was wrong, he spun around, half expecting to see Blutch having another panic attack. He sighed in relief when the corporal carefully crawled out of the wagon's open back. He was staring at something in his hand with great interest.

"What's that?" Clara called, craning her neck so as to get a better look.

"We're on the right track," Blutch responded, too absorbed in the object to hear her.

"How do you know that?" Cornelius asked, eyeing the corporal with curiosity.

The corporal tilted his palm to show the two what he had found. It glistened in the sunlight, casting a few soft points of gold off in odd directions. As soon as the object was within view Clara gave a cry. Scrambling down from Arabesque, she ran forward. Grabbing Blutch's cupped hands she tilted them even further so as to see it more closely.

"That's Mommy's!" She shrieked, "I'd know it anywhere! That's Mommy's locket!"

The two soldiers winced at the high-pitched yell.

"That's what I thought," Blutch said, opening the locket to reveal the fading pictures within. "This will make it easier for us to find your parents, Clara."

"Really?" the girl asked, carefully taking the locket from the corporal's outstretched hand. "How, Mr. Blutch?"

"Well," Blutch answered, rubbing the back of his neck, "I figure, if we have a hard time finding them, and we have to ask people if they've seen them-"

"Then we can show them the picture," Chesterfield finished, nodding in agreement. "Good idea."

"Can I hold onto it?" Clara asked, clutching the delicate object to her chest. She looked up at them with huge, pleading eyes.

Chesterfield shook his head. "I think it would be better if one of us kept it somewhere safe."

Clara's face fell and a slight tremor could be seen on her lower lip. Chesterfield sent Blutch a pleading glance. The last thing they needed on their hands out in the wilderness was a crying little girl.

Blutch nodded in response before carefully kneeling down in front of the child. He placed his hands over hers, which were still clutching the locket.

"Clara?"

The girl lifted her eyes to meet his.

"I know how important this locket is to you," he began, and his voice was very gentle. "But we have to keep it safe. What if you were to lose it?"

"But I _wouldn't_," she sniffed, tightening her grip.

"I'm sure you wouldn't," Blutch soothed her, patting her hand gently, "But what if you _did_?"

Clara was quiet for a moment. She looked at him sadly. "But what if _you_ lose it?"

"I won't," he said. She gave him a stern look. "I _promise_," he added.

Clara's eyes softened. For her, a promise was sacred. To break it would be unforgivable. She trusted Blutch to keep his word, and so, slowly, her hands opened and the locket slid into his own.

"I promise," Blutch said again, as reassurance and as a silent thanks to her trust.

Clara nodded, giving him a sweet smile. "We have to go if we want to catch up to Mommy and Daddy." She raced back over to Arabesque, waiting to be helped up.

Chesterfield lifted her onto the horse's back while Blutch tucked the locket safely away in the back pocket of his satchel. It was a snug and secure place to put it. It would be safe there.

...

The rest of the day was uneventful. Clara talked continually, and Blutch answered her questions and comments as usual. Thankfully, she didn't ask anything uncomfortable. Blutch was relieved, as well as the sergeant, who kept his ear on all their discussions.

It turned into a beautiful day, getting far warmer then they had expected it to. The sky was perfectly clear, without a cloud in sight. Birds sang, squirrels chattered, and insects buzzed as the trio made their way over fields and through forests. They stopped for lunch by a brook. Blutch even waded with Clara to cool down from the hot ride; skipping stones and splashing each other, before they had to move on.

As the sky began to darken, they made camp in a field. The grass was long, and they had to flatten and pull a large circle of it before they could risk a fire.

Chesterfield surveyed their supplies with a frown. They were beginning to run low on food. The sergeant couldn't help wishing that they had taken some meat from the shot grizzly. It wasn't the first time the thought had crossed his mind, but every time he did he realized it would never have worked. Clara would never have eaten it, and neither could have Blutch. It had been a traumatizing night for both of them. Chesterfield wasn't even sure he could have brought himself to eat it himself.

So now they were getting low. All that remained was some raw bacon strips, a few loaves of bread, and a few apples. Realizing that that would have to be saved for the next day, Chesterfield decided the only thing left to do was to go hunting. He didn't much like the idea, seeing as they might need the bullets for other, perhaps more dire, situations.

_Like meeting another grizzly_, he couldn't help thinking.

If it had been just him and Blutch, going a few days without proper nourishment wouldn't have been too bad. They'd done it before. But Clara was only a child, and children needed nourishment.

And so, after getting a fire going, he took his pistol and shot a rabbit. Blutch made it into a stew and they ate a hardy meal. There was even a little left over.

Before long, the moon had risen high into the sky. The two soldiers rolled out their mats and blankets. Blutch rolled out an extra blanket for Clara, right beside his own. He wanted Clara close, and Chesterfield couldn't blame him.

Chesterfield doused the fire and shortly after they were all sound asleep.

The crickets chirped, and other sounds of the night filled their ears. A light breeze rustled the tall grass all around them. The night was beautiful and peaceful, but as the rosy rays of sunlight were just beginning to appear to their right, a loud, piercing screech filled the air, jolting the two men into wakefulness.

**Sorry if this chapter is a little shorter than the rest. I didn't want to get into the next bit of action in this chapter, putting it in the next one instead. Don't forget to review! THANKS!**


	8. Thieves in the Night

**Forgot to say at the beginning of my story:**

**I do not own any Les Tuniques Bleues characters!**

**Ok, Enjoy!**

**...**

Blutch nearly jumped out of his skin. Thrashing wildly to untangle himself from his blanket, he frantically leapt to his feet.

"Stay were you are!" a voice yelled near-bye. Blutch froze. "And put your hands up!"

Slowly, Blutch complied, raising his arms up above his head.

"That's right," the voice chuckled, "Now, turn around, slowly."

Very slowly, Blutch turned. In the early morning light he could just make out two men. One was standing by the horses, going through their satchels. The other, much to Blutch's misery, was pointing a pistol at him while in the other he firmly held a squirming Clara. She looked frightened, looking up into the corporal's eyes as if pleading for help.

Blutch scowled angrily. "Let her go!"

The man smirked cruelly, cocking the gun and holding the child harder so she couldn't kick anymore. "No."

Blutch didn't know what to do. If he moved, he'd get shot. If he didn't move, the men would steal the horses, and possible take Clara as well. What could one man do against two?

_One_ _man_? Blutch gently looked around, careful not to move his head too much. Chesterfield's bed was empty, and he did not stand anywhere in the little circle. A feeling of great relief washed over the corporal. _They_ _didn't_ _see_ _him_! _They_ _don't_ _know_ _he's_ _here_!

Knowing he'd need to distract the thieves so the sergeant could catch them unawares, Blutch put a quick plan in action.

"Who do you think you are!?" he said loudly, shaking a fist at the man with the gun.

"None a yer business!" the man growled. Clara whimpered slightly.

Blutch could feel himself starting to shake. _No_! _Not_ _now_! _I_ _can't_ _afford_ _to_ _have_ _another_ _attack_ _right_ _now_! He took a deep, steadying breath. The panic that threatened to rise dissipated a little.

"I think it's very much my business," he said, as calmly as he could, "Those horses belong to me."

"D'ya hear that, Ben?" he called back to the smaller man rummaging in the packs. "I don't think he likes us!" He pouted mockingly, pistol never leaving the corporal's chest.

"Oh, that's too bad, ain't it Clif?" Ben smirked, pulling something out of Arabesque's satchel. Blutch felt his panic rising again when he saw that it was Clara's mother's locket. Giving the corporal a triumphant look, Ben slipped the trinket into his jacket.

Blutch was horrified. Clara would never forgive him if the thieves got away with the locket!

The small corporal probably would have run forward in protest, regardless of the danger, if he hadn't noticed a figure slowly emerging from the tall grass behind the two bandits.

Too focused on Blutch at the moment, Clif smiled wickedly. "I suppose yer wondering what we're gonna do with you two."

Blutch needed to keep their attention toward the front, away from Chesterfield, who by this time had almost come up behind Clif. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I would!"

Clif smiled shifting the pistol toward Clara and back to Blutch meaningfully. "Well, don't worry. We'll take good care of you."

"Yeah, I bet you will!" Chesterfield growled, jumping forward and getting hold of the gun before Clif could react. Clif jumped violently, letting go of Clara in the process. The little girl latched herself to the sergeant's side, as Chesterfield leveled the pistol at man's chest. "Don't worry, we'll take good care of you" he said with a smile.

Ben, seeing that the jig was up, leapt onto Arabesque's back, thinking that he could escape with what he'd managed to grab. But before he could take off, he felt someone jump up behind him, grabbing the back of his jacket and throwing him off the horse and onto the ground.

Blutch had jolted into action the minute his sergeant had disarmed Clif. Without a second thought, he ran forward, just as the smaller bandit jumped into his saddle. With a wild sprint and a leap, Blutch was seated behind him. Grabbing two handfuls of cowhide material, he gave a rough tug, sending the thief tumbling of the horse, dragging the corporal down with him.

They hit the ground with a painful _thump_, the impact knocking the wind out of both of them and sending them sprawling apart. Regaining his breath, Ben twisted around, hand flying to the pistol at his side, only to find it wasn't there. Glancing around frantically, he spotted it laying in the grass, and made a scramble for it.

Blutch winced as he struggled to his feet. Seeing his opponent dashing forward, the corporal quickly noticed the gun, closer to him than Ben. Lurching forward, Blutch was able to roll over to the pistol first. He sat on the ground with the pistol pointed up at the smaller bandit. "Hands up."

Ben complied with a snort.

Chesterfield sighed with relief. He had been unable to assist Blutch, having to keep his eye on Clif, as well as the gun. He had been startled by the corporal's somewhat violent attack, and feared he'd get himself killed.

Nudging Clif with the pistol, so that he would move to stand next to Ben, Chesterfield grabbed some rope and tied the two's hands in front of them.

"We'll take them into the next town," he said, double checking the secure knots. "There's sure to be a sheriff and a jailhouse." Chesterfield sent Blutch a concerned glance. "You alright?"

The corporal was slowly rising to his feet, using his right knee to steady himself. His hands were shaking ever so slightly, but that was barely noticeable. T he sergeant _did_ notice, however, when Blutch winced slightly as he stood up straight.

Instead of answering, Blutch strode forward, gun still pointed at Ben. He rested the barrel against the thief's chest. "Give me the locket," he said, his voice low and menacing.

Ben snorted, but reached slowly into his jacket, pulling out the trinket and placing it in Blutch's outstretched hand.

Clara walked up beside the corporal and Blutch held up the locket so she could see it clearly.

"I told you I'd keep it safe," he said.

Clara nodded. "You promised."

Blutch smiled, and she smiled back.

Chesterfield attached their new guests to the back of their horses, one man behind each. Then he lifted Clara up onto Arabesque and climbed up onto his own steed's back. Blutch placed the locket back in his satchel, before carefully getting in the saddle himself. The painful flinch that past across his face wasn't missed by his sergeant.

Leaning back, Chesterfield asked Clif, who was tied to his horse by a lead, how close the nearest town was.

Clif shook his head with a smirk, obviously not willing to tell. The subtle click of a pistol directed at him, however, quickly produced an answer.

"A mile or so due west."

Chesterfield nodded a thanks, putting his gun back into its holster.

Getting his baring, the sergeant got them headed in a westerly direction, and they headed for civilization.

...

The sun had fully risen by the time they made it into town. It was a small place, not that unlike what Clara's home had once looked like. People milled about the streets, pausing to stare at the two Union soldiers and little girl upon two horses, followed by two miserable looking prisoners.

Coming to a stop beside a building marked "Sheriff's Office", Chesterfield dismounted and went inside, coming out a moment later with the sheriff himself.

"What have we got here," he said, leaning so as to see the two thieves faces. "Well, well! If it isn't Clifford Jacklin and Benjamin Willworth! So someone finally got'chya, eh?" He looked to Chesterfield. "We've been after these two for a month."

"Glad we could be of some help," the sergeant answered, helping detach the prisoners from the horses.

They got them inside the jailhouse and the sheriff placed them in a cell. The door closed with a clang, and he latched it with the key.

"There," he said, motioning for the three travelers to follow him, "Come into my office. I have a few papers to fill out and I might need to ask a few questions."

They followed him back out to the front of the jailhouse, were the Sheriff sat down at his cluttered desk. "Name's Andy Swetsh, by the way."

Chesterfield nodded. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Swetsh. I'm Sergeant Chesterfield, and this is Corporal Blutch and Clara Catitdel."

The sheriff's eyes narrowed in thought. "Catitdel? Hmm. Name sounds awful familiar...Catitdel..."

Chesterfield and Blutch exchanged a look before Blutch ran out to the horses. After a moment he returned, carrying the golden, heart-shaped locket.

"Does this man and woman look familiar to you, Mr. Swetsh?" Blutch asked, handing the locket to the sheriff.

Opening it gently, Swetsh's eyes widened. "Yes! Yes, I remember now! They stopped by not two days ago. Along with a whole bunch of others. Seems they came from some destroyed town to the east of us. These two lost everything they had, including their daughter." He frowned as realization dawned on him. He looked at Clara in surprise. "You're...you're not their daughter, are you?!"

Clara nodded.

"Yes, she is," Chesterfield cut in, "and that's why we need to find them."

Blutch felt a weight lift from him at the news that the Catitdels had thought that Clara was dead. He had silently feared that they had abandoned her. That they didn't love her. They had left thinking that their daughter was lost, and no wonder. Blutch remembered the piles of charred wood and brick Clara had been buried beneath, and shuddered.

"Hmmm," Swetsh said, thoughtfully stroking his chin, "They left the same day they arrived. Headed farther west."

"So they're still two days ahead of us," Blutch surmised, taking back the locket the sheriff was handing him. He sighed, knowing that they still had a ways to go before they could get Clara back with her parents.

"At least we know which direction they went," Chesterfield said encouragingly. "We'll leave as soon as we can. Mr. Swetsh, could you tell us where we could get some supplies?"


	9. Storm

Chesterfield finished buckling the packs on the sides of his horse. The bulging satchels were now full of supplies, much to the sergeant's relief. In a way, he was thankful they had met up with the bandits. If they hadn't, they might not have come across the town and probably would have run out of food. Not to mention they wouldn't have gotten a lead as to which direction Clara's parents had gone.

Swinging up into the saddle, he joined Blutch and Clara, who were already mounted on Arabesque. Nodding a thanks to Sheriff Swetsh, the three turned their steeds westward, toward the sun, which was just beginning to sink in that direction.

It had taken until noon to gather and buy all the supplies they had needed, much to Clara's frustration. Once she had heard that her parents had been in town, with only a day or two's distance in between their own visit, she had become very anxious to leave. Blutch had managed to get her to understand that they couldn't go on without food, and calmed her down a bit.

The sky was beginning to cloud over, bringing to mind the red sky they had seen that morning.

_Red sky at night, sailor's delight. Red sky in morning, sailor's take warning._

Chesterfield knew that a storm would most likely hit by nightfall. Hoping to either outrun or miss the rain altogether, he kept up a steady pace, once again in the lead. Clara, again, kept up a steady stream of conversation, mostly about her family and friends who had evacuated her village.

Blutch, as usual, listened and commented when he could, entertaining the child and getting her mind off the long hours of travel.

The clouds grew in size and dark in color, billowing out in wide pillars of ominous cover. Chesterfield kept glancing up nervously. It had been four hours since they left town, and it was now miles behind them. Nighttime was fast approaching, but the weather only enhanced it. The wind picked up, blowing the trees so that their leaves tossed and turned, showing their paler undersides and the distinct smell of rain filled the air.

The change in the atmosphere was now significant enough to catch Clara's attention. She grew quiet, gripping Blutch's arms that crossed in front of her, holding Arabesque's reigns.

Blutch also became silent, obviously anxious.

"We need to find shelter," he called up to the sergeant.

Chesterfield turned to snap a response, but when he saw Blutch's discomfort and Clara's fear, he softened his reply. "I have to find a cave or something. I've been through this part of the country before. The place is speckled with them!" The wind had increased suddenly and he had to yell the last part of his sentence over the noise.

_Drip_

The first drop hit, landing right on Chesterfield nose. Before long, many more followed, being blown with force into their faces and on to their backs.

It started as one of those drizzly rains, the kind that are hard to see, but soak to the skin. Soon, however, it became one of those large raindrop downpours, that pound against your body until you feel numb.

Blutch did his best to shield Clara, but he wasn't much larger than the little girl, and his small body did little against the storm.

The wind blew relentlessly, causing the air to cool drastically. All three jumped as the sky lit up with lightning, followed by a fantastic thunderclap.

Clara's grip on Blutch's arm tightened, and the corporal could feel her quivering. _Wait_. With surprise, Blutch realized he was shaking as well. _That's strange_, he thought, attempting to ease the spasms that quivered through his hands.

Clara seemed to notice, and she looked up at him with concern. Her wet hair, straitened by the weight of accumulating water, lay stringed about her small face. Her clothes, which still included Blutch's army jacket, clung to her uncomfortably.

The corporal tried to give her his most reassuring smile, but it did little to make her feel better. Clara turned forward once again. The temperature continued to drop to a degree far below the norm for that time of year. The little girl tried to gather heat from her riding companion, but he was just as cold and wet as she was. Thunder shattered the darkness and she felt Blutch jump and his shaking increased.

Chesterfield was soaked and miserable. He peered through the curtain of rain, hoping to spot some sort of shelter. He griped his cap as the wind threatened to blow it off his head. Grumbling under his breath, and cursing the weather, he continued to search.

Suddenly, through the rain, he spotted a dark shape. An old, broken down cottage came slowly into focus.

"This way!" He shouted over the pounding precipitation. He headed for the shelter with Blutch and Clara following on Arabesque.

The edifice was very worn. The wood was faded and splintered, the shutters hung at odd, loose angles, and the shingles on the roof were moss covered and many were missing, leaving holes open to the harsh weather. It might not be the most luxurious place to wait out a storm, but it was better than nothing.

After tying the horses up outside, the tired travelers stumbled inside. Soaked to the skin and thoroughly exhausted, they made their way through the rickety door into the one room cabin.

Everything smelled of must and mold, and the light scampering noise was evidence to the fact that mice resided within the walls.

Chesterfield crossed the damp floor boards to inspect the run-down fireplace. The stone was worn and cracked, but a few bundles of old wood, only mildly damp, sat in the corner. Before long, the sergeant had a small fire going.

Clara stood holding Blutch's hand as the corporal worked to roll out their sopping wet blankets. She was shivering, and her throat was starting to get sore. She gazed up at Blutch, who also seemed uncomfortable. He was glancing all around him, scanning every corner, and whenever the thunder sounded, he would jump. His breathing was heavy and shaking ever so slightly.

When Blutch went back out into the rain to get the last of their supplies, Clara turned to Chesterfield.

"Mr. Sergeant?"

Chesterfield was still trying to coax the flames of their fire to full life, but he stopped to give the child his attention. "Yes?"

Clara fidgeted. "I-It's Mr. Blutch," she began, glancing toward the direction the corporal had gone. "He's...he's acting strange again."

Chesterfield felt his stomach drop slightly. "What do you mean?"

"He's acting kind of like he did in the forest...after the bear attacked." She paused, then added, "but not as bad."

The sergeant nodded slowly. "Thanks for telling me. I'll look after him, alright?"

Clara nodded, and yawned, rubbing her little fists into her eyes. With a smile, Chesterfield helped get her situated for the night, wrapped in a slowly drying bed roll by the fire. By the time Blutch had returned she was asleep.

Sergeant Chesterfield looked up sharply as the corporal entered the cottage. Blutch was now gasping for breath and his shaking had increased. He was leaning heavily against the wall, attempting to overcome whatever he was feeling.

He was, in fact, feeling extremely terrified. He had felt the rising panic threatening to take hold of him ever since the first subtle signs of the storm began. He had managed to keep it fairly under control, but he had known from the start he wouldn't be able to keep it up for long. Now, he was just glad Clara was asleep, and wouldn't see the worst of it.

He couldn't do anything about the sergeant. As embarrassing as it was to let his friend and superior officer see him like this again, he also felt that he was glad he wasn't alone and that Chesterfield was there.

Pushing himself from the wall, Blutch stumbled to a old chair in the corner. He sat it it, pulling his knees up to his chest, making himself as small as possible.

Chesterfield approached him carefully. He had seen this before many times in his father, who frequently suffered from attacks of seemingly unnecessary panic. The sergeant knew, from experience how frightening it could be for that person, and how bad it could get.

Chesterfield came and stood next to the chair, watching with concern, but also practiced calmness. Blutch looked up at him, his uneasiness showing clearly in his eyes. The sergeant felt relieved that the attack was fairly mild, compared to the corporal's last one, as he was still aware of Chesterfield's presence, but knew he would have to act quickly before that changed and the attack got worse.

"Blutch," he said gently, laying a hand on the smaller man's shoulder. He was surprised when he felt the violent shaking that had taken hold of the corporal. "Breath slowly."

What he really wanted to say was that they were safe and that there was nothing to be afraid of, but that would be useless. For Blutch, the danger was real; he wasn't safe. To tell him otherwise would do little to help the situation.

Blutch tried his best to gain control of his ragged breathing. His ribs hurt as each abrupt inhale caused a sharp pain. It wasn't unbareble, but it was certainly uncomfortable.

Chesterfield noticed the way the corporal held his side with one arm, wincing with each gasp. He remembered Blutch's fall with the bandit the night before, and made a mental note to insist on looking at it. But not right now.

The sergeant waited until Blutch's breaths became slightly less erratic. Once he thought the time frame was sufficient, he began talking in a low, soothing voice.

"Alright. There, that's it. Just breath slowly." He nodded in approval as the corporal actually showed signs of calming. "Good. Now, keep taking deep breaths, and tell me what's wrong."

He saw Blutch stiffen at once. His breathing increased by a fraction, but was steady.

Blutch struggled to get his thoughts in control. His mind felt like it was doing cartwheels, making it hard to think clearly.

_What was wrong with him?_

BOOM!

A tremendous thunderclap nearly shook the small cabin apart. The loud crash almost made Blutch's heart stop altogether as he jumped to his feet. His mind again fell into panic mode, filling with only the thoughts of canons. _Canon_ _fire_. _Battle_. _Death_. Blutch didn't answer his sergeant.

Chesterfield watched silently, puzzled by his friends behavior. Blutch was acting as if he were afraid of thunderstorms, but that wasn't right. They had been through many storms before, and it hadn't bothered the corporal in the slightest.

It wasn't long before the storm had passed. After a short while Blutch's shaking stopped and his breathing returned to normal. Now the only thing left was his embarrassment.

Throughout the whole ordeal Blutch had refused to discuss what was bothering him. If he was honest with himself, he wasn't quite sure about what was wrong. His mind still felt jumbled.

Mumbling something that sounded somewhere between a 'thank you' and a 'good night', the now exhausted soldier curled up on one of their drying bed rolls, close to Clara.

Chesterfield reluctantly did the same, and, before too long, they were both sound asleep.


	10. The Doctor

The pale morning light trickled through the tattered curtains that shrouded the broken windows of the abandoned cabin. Dust moats flouted through the dull beams, showing just how dirty the old building really was, and the sound of dripping could be heard in one corner, from a leak in the roof.

Blutch opened his eyes slowly, blinking to get them to focus. He sat up in sudden panic, not recognizing were he was, but then the night before came back to him and he relaxed, sliding a weary hand down his tired face.

Clara lay on the bed roll next to his, still sleeping, and Chesterfield was nearby in his, also still asleep. Outside, he could just hear Arabesque and the sergeant's horse neighing contentedly. Poor things had had to weather the storm out in the open.

Feeling the need to get up and move around, he extricated himself from the covers and stood. His muscles were achy and stiff, most likely an after effect of his panic attack. He had been so tense, he had been nearly ready to snap, and that had stayed in his body all through the night. He stretched, wincing when the action once again caused pain in his ribs.

He tiptoed out the door to stand on the porch, which was lopsided with age. Water was dripping from the overhang, splashing all around gloomily. The day was overcast, and the leaves hung limply, weighed down by the water that had collected in their folds. The air was cool and chilly, promising another dreary, unusually cold day. But a red glow in the east was a foreshadowing of more rain in the near future.

"Well, this is cheery, isn't it?"

Blutch turned to see chesterfield coming to stand beside him. He still had that sleepy, bedraggled look to him. Apparently, Blutch hadn't been as quiet as he had imagined when he got up.

"Yeah. Real pretty," he replied, matching Chesterfield's sarcasm.

The sergeant turned his head from the cheerful wet, foggy scene to look at the corporal with concern at the nearly emotionless voice. Blutch looked blankly in front of him. He seemed deep in thought, but not the pleasant type.

"Blutch," Chesterfield began slowly, "about last night..."

"I don't want to talk about it," the corporal snapped irritably.

"But..."

"I said I don't want to talk about it! Now leave me ALONE!" He whirled around and walked swiftly back into the cabin.

The sergeant could feel his temper rising. Blutch was so stubborn sometimes. _All_ _the_ _time_. He was foolish to refuse help. Foolish and childish. Keeping his fears to himself would only end in disaster. But Blutch was just too prideful to tell Chesterfield anything.

Muttering darkly to himself, the sergeant marched through the door, intending to speak his mind.

"Listen here, you..." He stopped himself, catching Blutch's frightened expression.

The corporal was kneeling by the unmoving form of Clara, still wrapped up in her blanket, sleeping. Blutch had a hand placed against the little girl's forehead, his eyes wide with alarm.

"Sergeant, something's wrong with her!"

Chesterfield was beside him in a moment, kneeling to inspect her himself. He noticed she was sweating profusely, and her skin was very warm to the touch. Her breathing was labored, and she wheezed whenever she inhaled.

"Oh no."

Blutch shifted his eyes from the sergeant to the girl and back again nervously. "She's sick, isn't she?"

Chesterfield sat back on his heels with a sigh. "I'm afraid so," he said sadly.

Blutch felt his heart sink in his chest. "Is..is it serious?"

"How should I know!" Chesterfield snapped in frustration, "I'm not a doctor!" He regretted his words immediately when Blutch flinched at his harshness. "But I know where to find one," he added, more gently. "According to the map the sheriff gave us, there's another town not too far from here. There has to be a doctor there." He gave Clara another sad look. "There _has_ to be."

As quickly as they could, the two men worked to get all their supplies packed and secured on their horses' backs.

Carefully, they unwrapped Clara from her bed. She moaned softly, but didn't wake up, much to the soldiers' concern. Blutch gathered her in his arms to carry her to Arabesque, but a sudden pain erupted in his side as he tried to lift her. Hissing and wrapping an arm around his chest, he lowered Clara back down swiftly, almost dropping her. The corporal looked to Chesterfield, who had crossed over to see if he was alright. Straightening the best he could, Blutch brushed it off as nothing. "Just a pulled muscle."

_Yeah_, _I_ _bet_, the sergeant thought to himself. _He_ _needs_ _a_ _doctor_. _They_ _both_ _do_. He gave Blutch a look that made it clear that he didn't believe him, but was willing to accept his answer for now, and carefully lifted Clara into his arms. She was so light. So small. _And_ _sick_, he reminded himself.

Blutch reluctantly accepted Chesterfield's help in mounting Arabesque, then made room for Clara to sit in front of him.

Chesterfield, however, shook his head. "I don't think that's such a good idea."

"Why not?" Blutch asked. He was starting to turn pale and he kept a hand pressed against his side. Whatever was wrong, it was really beginning to hurt him.

_I just_ _hope_ _he_ _can_ _make_ _the_ _trip_,the sergeant thought worriedly, climbing onto his horse with Clara still held in his strong arms. Out loud he said, "I just think I should carry her for a while." He was both relieved and concerned when the corporal gave no argument.

It took some time, almost until noon, before they reached the limits of a small town called Gildfordsonville. It was a typical, low population community. It had a post office, a church, a jailhouse and sheriff's office. Chesterfield scanned the few odd shops and barns, eyes finally coming to rest on a faded wooden sign hanging on a house to their right. It read:

_Medical Physician, Doctor Edward M. Jenkins_

"Thank goodness," the sergeant breathed in relief. He glanced behind him to see Blutch following on Arabesque slowly. If Chesterfield had thought he had looked pale before, the corporal was white as a sheet now. He was hunched over, gripping the reigns tightly. A grimace was temporarily fixed upon his face. He looked terrible.

They came up to the house and Chesterfield dismounted carefully, holding Clara in place on his horse's back until he was safely standing on the street. Then he slid her off into his arms. Walking up the steps to the door, the sergeant kicked the wooden barrier gently with his boot, as he could not knock with his arms full.

After a moment, the sound of footsteps could be heard coming from within the home. The door opened to reveal a middle-aged man with spectacles perched on the end of his nose.

"Hello," he said cheerfully. He noticed Clara, still laying limp in Chesterfield's arms and became more serious. "You need my professional help, correct?"

"Yes," the sergeant said, allowing the doctor to take the little girl from him.

Chesterfield heard a light _thump_, followed by a soft cry of pain and a curse. He turned to see that Blutch had dismounted, but was now wincing badly as he suffered the consequences of the action.

Chesterfield walked over to him and, grabbing the corporal's arm, slung it over his shoulder to assist the smaller soldier inside. Blutch complained loudly, but did little to physically resist.

The doctor led them in, still carrying Clara. It was a nice home, full of knick knacks and odd collectibles. Potted ferns and other, somewhat unusual, plants peeked out from behind furniture and adorned every corner. It was obviously the home of an unmarried man, however. Clothing was strewn in strange places, dishes were sitting, dirty in the wash-bin, and a fair collection of dust and cobwebs decorated anywhere they had fancied to build.

They followed him through the homey, comfortable abode until they came to a small, white door in the back of the kitchen. Balancing the little girl in his arms against his knee, the doctor managed to unlatch it and they all went thought.

It was a drastic change from the house. The office, which was small, was painted mostly white, giving it a very clean appearance. There was a bed, a desk, and a few chairs, but otherwise the room was very bare.

Laying Clara on the soft bed, the doctor went over to his desk to fetch the instruments of his trade. While he dug around for his stethoscope, Chesterfield eased Blutch into the chair closest to the bed. The corporal hissed in pain as he settled down, but his attention was on Clara, and the doctor who was now going to sit by her.

Doctor Jenkins examined Clara closely. He listened to her lungs and heart, and took her temperature. He then mixed up something and somehow managed to get the still-sleeping child to take it. Then he turned to the two men.

"She is suffering from a very mild case of a 24 hour bug," he said with a smile. " Nothing serious. Though it would be wise to keep her away from the wet and weather for a few days." He patted the girl's arm gently as he sat on the bed beside her.

"Will she be able to travel by tomorrow?" Blutch asked. His voice sounded strained and shaky, which did not escape the doctor's notice.

Dr. Jenkins nodded slowly, standing and coming toward them. "She should be." He came to kneel next to Blutch's chair. "But maybe we should see what your condition is before I finalize that opinion. Where are you hurt?"

Blutch opened his mouth to say he was fine, but his sergeant interrupted him quickly.

"He fell from his horse. Keeps holding his side."

The corporal gave Chesterfield a glare but shifted his attention quickly back to the doctor as the physician began to pull up his shirt.

"What are you doing?!" He didn't mean to sound startled, but that was how it came out. The doctor stopped at once.

"I have to examine you," he said soothingly. "Pulled, cracked, or possibly broken ribs can be a result of a fall such as you had, and it would be unwise not to treat it."

Blutch stiffened slightly, but, after a moment, nodded his consent.

Carefully, Dr. Jenkins resumed pulling up the corporal's white shirt. Chesterfield couldn't help wincing at the dark bruises that were clustered on Blutch's right side. They were mostly black and purple, but some had an irritated red tinge to them.

As gently as he could, Jenkins ran his fingers over the small man's ribs, one by one. His hands were cold, but, luckily, he managed to keep perfectly still. He felt uncomfortable, having never liked doctors, due to his childhood, or being touched.

Suddenly a sharp pain erupted in his side, and he gasped, nearly squirming right out of his seat in agony as he gripped the arms of the chair and all the remaining color in his face drained away. The doctor retracted his hand swiftly, watching his reaction with a sad shake of his head.

"My boy, that rib is cracked." He went to touch it again, but Blutch leaned away from him. "If I do not take care of it, it may become more serious," the doctor frowned, " You have already made it worse in your travels." He turned to the sergeant. "When did he attain this injury?"

Chesterfield thought for a moment, then said, rather guiltily, "Nearly two days ago."

The doctor sighed. "And I doubt he has kept still since that time," he muttered, to no one in particular. He turned back to Blutch and said firmly, "I am going to treat and wrap those ribs and give you something for the pain. You and your companions can still leave tomorrow, if that is your wish, but I advise that you personally take it easy. The little girl too. Is that understood?"

Blutch nodded sulkily.

Jenkins looked expectantly at Chesterfield and the sergeant also nodded.

"Good," the doctor said, satisfied, "I will go get some bandages. Sergeant, would you please assist me." He rose from his position on the floor and walked out of his office and back into the house part of the building. Chesterfield followed close behind.

The kindly man made his way to a trunk in the corner of his living room. It was piled with all kinds of junk. With one swoop of his arm the debris scattered away. The lid of the chest creaked as he opened it and he began to shovel through it's contents. From within the confines of the box his voice sounded muffled.

"I would very much like to hear your story, Sir," he said, pulling out a roll of white linen.

"It's rather long, Doc," Chesterfield replied, rubbing the back of his neck.

Jenkins smiled. "Give me the quick version."

The sergeant shrugged. "Blutch found Clara, that's the girl's name, in an abandoned town attacked by Confederate soldiers. We are trying to reunite her with her family."

Jenkins nodded. "And your friend's 'accident'?"

"Bandits. He jumped one on horseback. They both fell to the ground."

The doctor nodded again with a sigh. "Well, you'll have to stay the night. Neither of your friends are truly well, but they should be fine by morning. And I use the term _fine_ reluctantly. The girl - Clara did you say?- should be kept warm and dry. Your other friend -"

"Blutch," Chesterfield added quickly.

"-Blutch," the doctor repeated, "should not participate in any vigorous activity. Those ribs are only a fraction away from being broken, and that, my good man, would be most unpleasant."

"Yes, Sir."

Jenkins turned to head back to his patients in the office, but Chesterfield stopped him by gently grabbing his arm. "Um, Doc? There's something else I'd like to discuss with you."

The doctor politely gave him his full attention. "Yes, what is it? Is something wrong?"

Chesterfield rubbed the back of his neck again, nervously. "Well, yes. Or, at least, it's a concern."

"Please continue, Sergeant."

Chesterfield took a deep breath. Carefully, he told Dr. Jenkins about Blutch's panic attacks, and how frequent they were becoming. Jenkins listened until the soldier was done.

"So you see, Doc...I'm getting worried. He's never had this problem before. And...well, sir, to tell you the truth...it's disturbing."

Jenkins stroked his chin thoughtfully, pacing. "Interesting." He stopped and faced the sergeant. "Understand that I am no physiologist, but it seems to me that there is a pattern."

Chesterfield gave him a confused look. "A pattern?"

"Yes, Sergeant, a pattern. Let's look at the situations in which he had these attacks. One, before you went into battle. Two, when confronted with uncomfortable memories. Three, the bear incident, and then there's the thunderstorm last night. There are probably more instances, but we shall look at these."

Chesterfield nodded as the doctor continued.

"The first attack, happening just before a battle, brings up the possibility that it was the battle itself that brought on his panic."

"But Blutch never participates in the battles," Chesterfield interrupted, "He hates the war."

"Hmmm." The doctor was silent a moment. "Perhaps, it is not the participation, but the end result..."

"What do you mean?"

"Let us move on first, to confirm my suspicions. You say he had an attack after he showed you the little girl?"

"Yes," Chesterfield replied, still feeling confused. "Right after I mentioned bringing Clara to an orphanage."

"And you said he was once an orphan himself?"

"Yes. From what I understand, it was not a pleasant life."

The doctor nodded. "He was mistreated?"

"Yes."

"Ah." Jenkins began to pace again. "You said he hates the war. By that you mean he hates violence?"

Chesterfield nodded.

"I see. So it is safe to assume that violence of any form makes him feel uneasy, due to his past."

The sergeant thought about it for a moment before agreeing. "I guess so."

"Then let us move on to the bear attack. You say he shot the bear?"

"Yes."

"That is very violent, wouldn't you say?"

Chesterfield began to see the pattern. "Yes. Yes, it is, but he had no choice."

"Indeed..." Jenkins looked down at the linen still in his hands. "I believe your friend is struggling mentally with the violence he sees around him. The violence that, as a soldier, he is a part of... _has to _be a part of...and he hates it."

"But what about the thunderstorm?" Chesterfield said, "what has that got to do with violence?"

"That," the doctor said sadly, "I do not know. That is something you will have to ask him about."

"Me!" Chesterfield almost wanted to laugh in the guy's face. Blutch would never answer a question like that. "He doesn't tell me anything, especially if it's as personal as you say this may be. Wouldn't it be better if you asked him?"

Jenkins shook his head. "If he does not tell you, he will certainly never tell me." He put a hand on Chesterfield's shoulder. "Just give him some time. He'll open up eventually." He started towards the office again. "Come. We had better tend to the corporal and the little girl."

**Whew! I've been writing when I can. I've been working as a cook/janitor/councilor at a summer camp for the past three weeks, and have been very, VERY busy. Just three more weeks to go though. Don't forget to REVIEW! THANKS!**


	11. The Crossing

"Stupid bandages," Blutch growled irritably.

He was perched on the back of Arabesque with Clara sitting in front of him. They had spent the night at Doctor Jenkins' home. It had been nice to sleep indoors for a change. Clara had awakened feeling much better, and even Blutch had had to admit his ribs hurt a little less.

They had gathered some more supplies in town and found another lead to Clara's parent's trail. A wondering group of people, matching Clara's home town citizens' description, had stayed a few nights only a two days before. They were gaining on them. Clara was ecstatic.

Now they were following the trail, making their way through the quiet forest.

Blutch's chest felt tight and restricted. The bandages wrapped around his middle and upper chest made it hard to breath properly, and they itched something terrible. All in all, they were making the corporal quite grouchy.

Clara glanced up at him with sympathy. She still looked a little weak, though the fever had left her. Dark bags hung beneath her eyes, but the eyes themselves had regained their twinkle.

The little girl patted his hand, causing Blutch's mood to soften. "I'm sorry," he said apologetically, "it's just so uncomfortable."

"At least it doesn't hurt you anymore," the child offered helpfully.

Blutch smiled and nodded. He didn't have the heart to tell her he was still in considerable pain. It was, however, an improvement from the night before, so he was able to keep it to himself.

Chesterfield, unlike in their previous traveling hours, rode in the back instead of up front of their small group. This was so that he could keep an eye on the other two, who still looked paler then he liked.

Thankfully though, it was a far warmer day then ones past, and the sun shone brightly, illuminating the forest around them. The beams of golden light streamed down upon the trail, casting green shadows on the ground, swaying with the light breeze.

They had made good progress, despite the multiple rests they took. Clara and Blutch never wanted to stop, but the sergeant insisted. And so, by late noontime, they had traveled a considerable distance. They continued for another hour or so before Chesterfield held up a hand and called to the others.

"I think we should stop for the night.''

They had come to a halt beside a large, fast flowing river at the edge of the forest.

Blutch stopped Arabesque so that the sergeant could come up along side them.

"But I don't want to stop," Clara pouted, "I want to keep going."

"It'll take us forever to catch up to them if we keep going at this pace," Blutch second, though he looked completely worn out and in great need of rest.

Chesterfield shook his head at him. "We'll never 'catch up to them' at _all_ if we don't take care of our health."

Blutch grumbled something under his breath, when his eyes caught sight of something and he blurted out, "But we're so close!"

"We don't know that!" the sergeant said, losing his patience and gesturing around them with his hand. "They could be days away!"

A smirk came to the corporal's face. He pointed slightly to their right, where there lay the smoldering remains of a camp fire. In fact, their were several, indicating that a large traveling group had stayed there. "Don't be so sure."

Chesterfield frowned down at the evidence.

"We're getting very close," Blutch continued, "The fires are still smoking, which means they are fairly new. Built very recently, probably last night. If it had been built before that, the wet weather we had yesterday would have put them out completely. We're right behind them!"

He looked down at Clara with a huge smile on his face. The girl beamed up at him, her hand resting on his.

"Please, Mr. Sergeant," she asked, turning to look at Chesterfield. "At least a little further?"

Chesterfield was a strong willed man. He had braved many battles, traveled many hundreds of miles, and had had to deal Blutch for more then three years. But the soulful eyes that stared hopefully into his were no match for him. Clara sat, hands founded in her lap, boring into him with all her heart.

"Oh," he said, trying to still sound angry, "Alright."

Clara cheered.

"But only 'a little further'. And we are going to rest first," he added quickly. He dismounted and stood in the grass. Clara managed to climb down to join him, but Blutch stayed where he was. It would be too much of a hassle to get down and back up again, because of his injury.

"I don't like the looks of this river," he commented from Arabesque's back. The water didn't seem too deep, but it was moving swiftly. Rivers were tricky things to cross, even under normal circumstances. Of course, they didn't have any wagons, which would make things easier. "How deep is it?"

The sergeant stared out at the flowing ribben of murky water. The rain from the day before had caused it to swell up, making it muddy and brown.

"Hard to tell," he said, trying to catch a glimpse of the river's bottom. He picked up a long twig. He tested the water's edge first. When that proved to be shallow, he moved on. Finally he made it to the rivers center. The sergeant was getting soaked, but he really didn't mind. The water came up to just past his chest, though not quite.

"It's about four and a half to five feet deep," he yelled back to them, turning and trudging back the way he had come. "Shouldn't be a problem for the horses to cross. That way Clara won't get wet."

_It was worth a shot._

Helping Clara back into the saddle in front of Blutch, Chesterfield then climbed back onto his steed and urged him into the shallows. Blutch nudged Arabesque gently with his boot to do the same.

Clara remembered what Doctor Jenkins had told her when she had woken up in his office; that she shouldn't get wet after her brief case of the bug. She wasn't sure what the 'bug' had been, but she was positive she didn't want it to come back. And so she curled her legs up, so that she sat scrunched up between Blutch and Arabesque's neck.

The mirky water swirled around the horses legs as they began to decend into deeper currents. Twigs and other debris floated by, journeying lazily to who-knows-where and brushing against the animals' limbs.

By the time they reached the middle of the river the water was just touching Arabesque's underbelly, getting Blutch's boots wet, but otherwise everything was going well as he veered slightly to the right, parallel to Chesterfield.

Blutch was just beginning to think their luck was improving when he felt Arabesque suddenly lurch oddly to the side. It felt like a stumble, but when the beast failed to regain it's footing, Blutch knew they were going down.

_It was as if it was all in slow motion. Blutch felt the water rising to his upper legs. He heard Clara cry out in surprise and fear. He remembered Clara's illness and the doctor's orders._

_Clara can't get wet!_

Snatching Clara and hauling her up so she was leaning, curled against him, Blutch stood up as much as he could in the stirrups.

"Sergeant!"

At the same time he yelled, with strength he didn't know he possessed, Blutch threw the little girl in the sergeant's direction, just seconds before the corporal hit the water.

Chesterfield heard the panicked shout and turned just in time to catch an airborne Clara. He caught her awkwardly, just barely missing dropping her into the river. He glanced back to his right, where the child had come from, just in time to see Blutch go under as Arabesque was pushed over by the current.

Blutch felt the current grab hold of him and drag him further under. He didn't panic at first, remembering that the sergeant had said the river was only four to five feet deep. Blutch wasn't a tall man, not by a long shot, but he was pretty sure he was tall enough to manage that depth. But when his feet failed to touch bottom, and he continued to sink he could feel his anxiety rise.

Chesterfield had expected the corporal to resurface immediately, but when he failed to do so he became worried. Arabesque had righted herself, but now appeared to be swimming. The water shouldn't have been deep enough for that...unless...

That's when it struck the sergeant. Rivers could be tricky to cross, being shallow in some places and deeper in others...and that must have been the case. Arabesque must have walked to far to their right, veering off the shallow area to fall over a place where the river bottom dropped off!

"Blutch!"

Chesterfield's mind raced back through all their previous adventures, trying to recall whether the corporal knew how to swim. _Yes_, he concluded, _yes,_ _he_ _does_. But that didn't ease the fact that Blutch was still below water.

"Clara, take these," he cried, thrusting the reigns into the child's hands. "Do you think you can ride to shore?"

She nodded quickly, eyes wide with fear for her friend.

"Then get to shore, I'll be there in a minute!" With that, the sergeant slide of his horse and into the water. Again it only came up to his chest. He let the current take him towards the spot where Blutch went under, pushing with his legs against the river floor to move faster. He was not surprised when his suspicions were confirmed as the ground beneath him suddenly gave way to much deeper water. As soon as he reached the spot he dove, forcing his eyes open to peer through the muddy water. The current wasn't as fast beneath the surface, and he hoped against hope that Blutch was not too far...and that he wasn't too late.

Blutch's lungs began to ache as he felt the need to get air into them. But for some reason, he couldn't seem to be able to tell which direction was up and which was down. The water was so dirty that the sun, and it's life-giving rays, were dimmed to the point where he couldn't find them. The water around him began to grow colder, and he knew he was still going down.

That's when he panicked.

He began to struggle in any direction he could, arms and legs kicking out uselessly in all directions. His ribs burned, but that was lost in the consuming pain in his lungs.

When something grabbed hold of his wrist, Blutch jerked away, too frightened to register the sergeant's presence. But the hand persisted, grabbing his arm and pulling him through the water, toward the surface. The gloom became lighter, and the sideways current became stronger then the downward one.

Chesterfield broke the surface, holding the weakly struggling corporal's upper body above the water. Blutch gasped and sputtered frantically, trying to fill his lungs with oxygen. But he continued to flail and kick, breaths coming in short, sharp intakes of air, as if he still found it nearly impossible to get the air into his body.

"Mr. Sergeant!"

_Clara's_ _voice_. Chesterfield glanced behind him and spotted the girl, now dismounted and on dry land, on the opposite bank. She looked terrified; ready to jump into the water herself to assist them, which would be bad since she probably didn't know how to swim.

Forcing his way through the river's flow, Chesterfield somehow managed to make it to shore with the corporal. As soon as they were clear of the water, the sergeant set Blutch down so the smaller man was on his hands and knees. The corporal coughed up a frighteningly large amount of water before collapsing against the Chesterfield, who still hadn't let go of him.

Then the shaking began. It started as light tremors, but quickly turned into violent jolts that shot all through him. It took Chesterfield a moment to realize that this was not just the shock of nearly drowning, but another panic attack _added_ to it.

_Great_.

Clara watched anxiously as Chesterfield tried to lift Blutch to his feet, but when the corporal stayed limp, Chesterfield picked him up and grabbed the horses' reigns. Indicating with his head for Clara to follow, they walked for a ways until all sight and sound of the river was gone.

"We'll sleep here tonight," Chesterfield said softly, setting Blutch carefully on the grass. The corporal had latched onto his jacket and wouldn't let go. Normally, Chesterfield would have found this annoying and would have pried the tightly gripping hands off him. But the frightened, dazed look on Blutch's face showed that his friend was still trapped in the underwater nightmare he had just witnessed. And so Chesterfield stayed as he was; kneeling in the grass with Blutch's fingers desperately intertwined with his uniform.

Clara came and sat beside him. "Mr. Sergeant?" she asked timidly, "Is Blutch going to be alright?"

Chesterfield nearly smiled at her dropping the "Mr." to Blutch's name. He nodded reassuringly. "I'm sure he'll be fine...he's just a little scared right now."

"Like I was...when the soldiers came to my village?"

Chesterfield gave her a long, thoughtful look. Clara had never really talked about what had happened. Not at any great length, anyway. She only answered their questions, leaving what they didn't ask locked away inside her.

"I was so scared then," she continued softly. Her eyes never left the frightened corporal for a moment. "There was so much noise...shouting, guns, screams..." She paused, choking back a sob. "I was all alone...when they attacked, I was left to myself, trapped under the schoolhouse...Teacher, Mom, Dad, and all my friends...I thought they were gone..." She reached out to pat Blutch's arm. "I don't want Blutch to be alone when he's scared...like I was..."

The sergeant was truly touched by the little girl's words. They seemed to come from one with far more years, and far more experience, then a tiny child would be expected to utter.

_Out of the mouth of babes. _


	12. Meant to Happen

The night sky was filled with countless stars. A light breeze blew through the countryside, rustling the leaves in the summer foliage. Crickets chirped and, off in the distance, the haunting call of a bard owl echoed in the darkness. The moon was full, appearing slightly orange in the lower atmosphere. The smell of dew was in the air, bringing with it a cool dampness.

Blutch sat by their camp fire, knees pulled to his chest, as he poked at the flames with a thin twig in his hand.

Nearby, Clara lay, sleeping peacefully. It had been a long day for her. In fact, it had been a long, hard week, for _all_ of them.

Chesterfield returned from the inky blackness of the forest around them with a load of wood. He set it down and went to sit on the other side of the fire. Blutch didn't look up; instead he just kept staring into the flames, picking away the charred debris. They stayed that way for some time, neither one speaking or acknowledging the other's presence.

Chesterfield let his mind wander to the events of that evening. He and Clara had both been relieved when Blutch started to recover from his ordeal. At first, it was only that he would focus on them, appearing to hear them when they spoke to him. After some time, he would answer them in a shaky voice. The tremors and remaining panic stayed with him the longest, but, over time, even those faded and he returned to 'normal'. He had assured them he was fine, even helping make something to eat, though he ate very little himself. But as soon as Clara was put to bed, and her soft rhythmic breathing could be heard, he drew into himself, sitting alone by the fire. Chesterfield had decided to give the small soldier some space, leaving to get the timber. Blutch was in the same position when he returned.

"Blutch, we _have_ to talk about this," the sergeant said gently.

The corporal didn't meet his eyes, but Chesterfield noticed him cringe. Blutch was going to resist this, the sergeant knew, but this couldn't go on any longer. It was tearing the corporal apart, and Chesterfield along with it. Clara too. She cared about Blutch, very much. The sergeant knew he had to break through, even if it pained them both.

_Sometimes we need to hurt before we can heal._

"Tell me what's wrong," he urged, "Why are you having so many panic attacks?"

"I don't know." The answer was tight; quiet.

"Yes, you do, Blutch!" Chesterfield growled angrily, standing so he could look down on the corporal.

"No."

"Blutch! You're only hurting yourself! No, that's not true. You're doing much more damage then that! Look at Clara! How do you think she's taking all this?!" Clara shifted in her sleep, so he quieted to an intense whisper. "She looks up to you. Maybe that means nothing to you but-"

"Of course it means something!" Blutch hissed, rising to his feet as well, with a wince. His ribs, miraculously still unbroken, were sore, and the action caused it to burn slightly. He drew himself to his full height, which, even at its best, only come up to Chesterfield's chest.

"You think I like having these attacks?" he continued angrily. "You think I like scaring everyone around me out of their wits? Well, guess what! I don't! But I can't help it! I-it's who I am! What my life has made m-me!" His voice started to shake as the tremors returned. "And you-" He stopped with his finger posed pointing at the sergeant. The hand was shaking, and he pulled it back quickly, but Chesterfield had already seen. Blutch sat back down unsteadily, again bringing his knees up to his aching chest. He looked into the fire again.

"It's not your fault..." he finished, his voice barely above a whisper. He lifted his gaze to meet the astounded sergeant's, and their was a plea for help in his eyes. The corporal closed them, and let out a shuddering sigh. "I...I don't think I can..." He couldn't seem to finish, instead he lowered his head to rest against his knees, despite the way the position pulled on his ribs. He just wanted to disappear.

Chesterfield stood still for a moment. He hadn't expected Blutch to break down so easily. But now things could only get better. They had hit rock bottom, now the only way left to go was up.

The sergeant carefully made his way around the fire. He knelt down so he was beside the corporal, whose head was still lowered.

"Blutch?"

The small man jumped, looking up.

"Blutch," Chesterfield continued, "I...I know we fight a lot and yell...but I would never want anything to, well, you know...happen to you...and for you to be...like _this_...well, I just can't let it happen. So, please...trust me just this once and tell me...as a _friend_?"

The corporal stared at him for a second, as if thinking deeply about what he'd said, before nodding slowly.

Chesterfield inwardly sighed. If that hadn't worked, he'd never have gotten any further. He nodded back, settling on the grass beside Blutch.

Blutch remained silent for a long time, and the sergeant began to wonder if he wasn't going to tell him anything after all. But then the corporal turned himself so they were facing each other. Taking a deep breath, Blutch began.

"It's...it's this whole war. I...it just...it's" he struggled, finding it hard to get out what he had held inside so long. He fell silent again, staring down at the dark, dewy grass at his feet.

Chesterfield understood his friend's distress. "Would it help if I asked you questions, and you just answered in yes, no, or short sentences?" he offered.

Blutch tilted his head to the side. _It's_ _worth_ _a_ _try_. "Yes."

Chesterfield decided to go through Dr. Jenkins' theory. It had seemed fairly possible, and it couldn't hurt to give it a go.

"You are having these attacks because of the war?" the sergeant began.

"Yes...no..y-" A conflicted look crossed the corporal's face.

"It's alright. Yes and no. That's fine," Chesterfield assured gently. "Now, you have rarely participated in battle, Blutch. So it is not battle fatigue?"

"No."

"Is it the violence?"

Blutch looked startled. He stared at the larger man beside him in surprise. "Y-yes."

"I see." Chesterfield didn't want to ask the next question, but he knew that, in order to make further progress, he had to. "Is it because of something that happened to you?...At the orphanage?"

The corporal closed his eyes and nodded weakly. He didn't trust his voice at the moment, afraid he would start to cry and make more of a fool of himself.

"And the panic attacks: the battle, the bear, and..." here he spoke with an apologetic tone, "when I talked about bringing Clara to an orphanage, they were all because of your dislike of violence?"

"Fear."

Chesterfield blinked. "Huh?"

"My _fear_ of violence," Blutch corrected, leaving their tactic of 'yes' and 'no' behind. He was ready to talk about this. "It...it was tough at the orphanage. There were a lot of mean people there...people who treated us...badly." He paused to collect himself when his voice cracked. Thoughts of the orphanage faded as his mind filled with images of green, grassy hills covered in dead soldiers; of the injured in the infirmary moaning and crying out in pain; of Clara's school, knocked to the ground with a little girl buried beneath it. It made him feel sick. His breathing became faster, and more desperate, close to another attack.

"It seems so pointless!" he cried, letting all his frustration out now. "Every battle, Sergeant! Every battle! Smoke, disease, death, blood...Why, Sergeant? _Why_ is it this way? _Why_ are we fighting this stupid war?!" He dropped his head into his hands, covering his eyes in an attempt to block out the unpleasant memories. "Through the years I've seen more violence then I can remember...then I _want_ to remember. Violence...cruelty...I just can't take it anymore, Sergeant! I just can't!" He fisted his hands against his head in anguish, his last words having escalated to a hoarse yell.

Chesterfield wasn't overly surprised at his outburst; he had been bracing himself for something like it, but it still unnerved him to see the usually controlled, smirking soldier suddenly helpless and emotional. He was silent for a long moment.

"I know...I know how...terrible this war has been," he began haltingly. "And I know how horrible it's been for you...but there is a reason."

"L-like what?" Blutch sniffed. He was holding back tears, but his eyes took on a shiny glaze.

The sergeant paused, thinking. "We fight for the freedom of others, and for ourselves," he said dutifully.

"Couldn't we have just...talked it out? What's the use of freedom if there's no one _left_ to enjoy it?"

Chesterfield was at a loss for that one. The war had been a product of mass miscommunication. No one had _wanted_ to talk, that was the problem. Now that he thought of it, the North was just as much to blame as the South.

"I-I don't know, Blutch. But wars have been happening all around the world for hundreds of years. It's...it's almost like a part of life."

"But they don't do anything!" Blutch cried, his voice rising again slightly. "No good comes from violence and destruction!"

"Maybe not all at once," Chesterfield commented thoughtfully. "Think about it, Blutch. What about the the war against the British, the one that founded our country? Sure it was terrible. Sure many men, women and children died. But what have we got now, Blutch? What do we, the next generation have?"

The corporal remained motionless before answering quietly. "The United States."

"That's right! Without that war, we wouldn't be free. We wouldn't be Americans!"

"But we're not so united _now_."

Chesterfield flinched visibly. That was true. The Southern states were attempting to detach themselves from the Union. They weren't one anymore. It was one half against one half. One brother against the other.

_And if a house is divided against itself, that house cannot stand. *_

"Blutch," the sergeant finally concluded, "I can't explain a war. Yes, they're horrible. This one seems the worst to us because we are a part of it. But what about years from now, Blutch? When this war if far in the past. When we're all gone and the next generation looks back like we do at the founding of our country. What will they see? Death. Battles. Heroes. Traitors. But what would the outcome be? What will it bring to the United States in the end?"

He paused as his words hung suspended in the night air.

"I just hope," he finished, "that whatever people will see when they look back, is that, as horrible as this war was; as bloody, and frightening, and destructive; that it somehow made us stronger. That it somehow brought us closer together. Made us more united then we ever were before."

He looked to Blutch, who was staring at him, completely captivated by his sergeant's words. "Why are there wars? I don't know, Blutch. But God uses every situation for His purpose.* I don't know whether we will win or lose, or what the outcome will be, but whatever happens...it's meant to happen, and we have to believe that."

They sat in silence for a moment.

Chesterfield watched Blutch as he seemed to be thinking over all they had just talked about. It was hard to tell whether it had been helpful, but he certainly looked less tense.

Blutch felt like his head was in a whirl. Everything Chesterfield had said made sense, but some of it was just...hard to understand. Hard to accept. His mind still felt terribly confused. _I'll_ _have_ _to_ _think_ _about_ _this_ _some_ _more_, he thought.

He got up. "Thank you, Sergeant," he said uncomfortably. "I...I just need some time to work this out."

Chesterfield nodded in understanding.

They both made their way to their separate beds and crawled beneath the blankets. Neither one fell asleep right away, as their minds were still going over their discussion. But soon, by the time the moon had reached it's highest point in the sky, they were both fast asleep.

**...**

*** Mark 3:25 "**If a house is divided against itself, that house cannot stand."

***Romans 8:28 "**And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose."

**O.K., here's another chapter! Should be nearing the end pretty soon. **


	13. Complications

The long caravan-like line of travelers slowly made their way across the open fields of wheat. They had been travelling all day, and now it was nearly noon. Some had wagons, but many more walked on foot. They flattened down the golden carpet of grain, leaving a path through the fields.

By noontime, they had stopped to set up camp. Women washed laundry, while some of the men set up tents and fetched wood for a fire for cooking. The remainder of the people sat to catch their breath.

A small group of injured were placed in the warm sunshine, in the hope that the sun's rays would further their healing.

In the midst of all this activity a man and a woman sat apart. Their faces were downcast, and the woman was crying. Her hair was bright red, and her eyes were a brilliant blue. The man beside her, undoubtedly her husband, held her small, delicate hand gently, attempting to comfort her.

The people around them shook their heads sadly at the sight of the two. They whispered amongst themselves:

"It's a terribly sad thing, to lose one's only child," one woman said to her sister.

"Yes," the other replied, "Curse the men who destroyed our home and their family!"

The other people seamed shocked at the young woman's harsh words, but none disagreed with her statement.

Suddenly a call went out from the man on watch. "Horse and rider approaching!"

Panic set in at once.

"It's the Confederate soldiers!"

"They're sending spies after us!"

"They are going to finish what they started in our village and kill us all!"

The women and children were herded into the center of camp, while the men grabbed their rifles and created a semi-circle around them, aiming their muskets at the oncoming stranger.

Chesterfield had been going at a gallop for some time now. He had decided that morning that they were close enough to the travelling villagers that someone would be able to catch up to them, if they hurried. Since Blutch was in no condition to ride at such a pace, and Clara was much to afraid to travel at that speed, it was decided that Chesterfield would go on ahead and bring the girl's parents back with him.

Now, as he approached, he recognized the formation around the camp and slowed his steed down to a walk. These people would be frightened and suspicious of strangers. And those two things, mixed with about twenty rifles, was always a sticky, and possibly dangerous, situation.

When the sergeant was within hearing range, one of the men, who seemed to be in charge, called out. "Who are you? And what do you want? Speak, or we'll shoot!"

"I'm a friend!" Chesterfield called back. "I bring important news for a couple in your company!"

"Oh yeah," came the disbelieving answer, "For who?"

"For Mr. and Mrs. Catitdel!"

A gasp went up from the women in the group. They all turned to the red head in their midst, who's face was still stained with tears. Another man, the woman's husband, stood up from his place by the men.

"I am Wilford Catitdel," he called, "what news have you for me and my wife?"

Chesterfield felt a wave of relief run through him. The whole journey there he had often wondered if the girl's parents were even still alive.

"May I come closer?" the sergeant answered, dismounting carefully. "I will disarm if you like?"

"You are a soldier?" the first man asked suspiciously.

"Of the Union Army," Chesterfield stressed. "See my uniform?"

The villagers seemed to notice the blue clothing for the first time, and an almost audible sigh of relief went through the crowd.

"Yes, you may come closer." Many of the men lowered their guns, but kept them at the ready. After all, it could be a trick.

The sergeant made his way toward them, his hands visible to them all so as not to provoke some trigger-happy citizen into something they'd all regret.

He was met by the first man who had spoken, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Catitdel. The first man held out his hand in greeting and Chesterfield shook it warmly.

"Jonas Thatch, formally the mayor of Hodswell," he introduced.

"Sergeant Cornelius Chesterfield," the sergeant replied. He turned his attention to the man and woman behind Mr. Thatch. "Mr. and Mrs. Catitdel?"

They both nodded, curious as to why a Union soldier would have news for them.

"You must turn back and come with me," Chesterfield said quickly. He didn't like leaving Clara and Blutch alone for too long. "Back about three miles I left your daughter with-"

"Our daughter?!"

The husband grabbed hold of the front of the sergeant's uniform. "What are you talking about?!" the man cried, "You must be lying!"

"Our daughter is dead," wailed the woman behind him, "We saw the school collapse with her inside!"

"No, no," Chesterfield said hurriedly, trying to keep the emotional father from choking him in his grief. "Her name is Clara!"

The couple stood silent, Wilford Catitdel letting go of the sergeant's clothing.

"A corporal in my company found her in a ruined village," Chesterfield continued, now that he had their attention. "She was trapped in the basement of a schoolhouse that had been destroyed. She has red hair and-Ack!" His air was once more cut off as the two parents launched themselves at him and embraced him.

"Our Clara is alive!" the woman cried joyfully, tears falling on Chesterfield's blue uniform.

They released him and began flooding him with questions.

"Is she alright?"

"Where is she?"

"Has she gotten enough to eat?

"Is she-"

"Enough!" Chesterfield yelled. When they fell silent he continued. "Yes, Mrs. Catitdel, your daughter is fine. She is with Corporal Blutch at the moment, about three miles back along the trail. We should return to them as soon as possible."

Mr. Catitdel nodded in agreement. He turned to his wife, face joyful, but serious. "Caroline, stay with the others-"

"But I want to come with you! I want to see our little girl!"

"Yes, my dear, I know. But we will get their faster with just me and the sergeant." He took her hands in his. "I'll bring her back safe, I promise." The kindly mother nodded, a tear falling slowly down her cheek.

"Go," she said softly.

He kissed her lovingly, before fetching his horse. He mounted and nodded to Chesterfield. They both took off at top speed, leaving only a settling cloud of dust behind. Mrs. Catitdel watched until they were out of sight, praying that everything would turn out alright in the end.

...

Blutch cursed under his breath as Clara clung to him fearfully. They were both hiding under a thick bush, hoping that the small band of Confederate soldiers wouldn't spot them. They had arrived an hour after Chesterfield had left, and it was only by some miracle that Blutch heard them coming and was able to take cover with Clara in time.

Now the gray coats were stomping around their camp site, digging in their supplies. Blutch felt his anxiety rise as they approached Arabesque. He wasn't worried about them taking her; he could always signal her to faint on the spot. What did cause his heart to sink, however, was when one soldier dug into his Arabesque's side satchel and pulled out Clara's locket. He shot a look down at Clara when she suddenly inhaled sharply. She had seen that they had found her prized possession, and had let her emotion get away from her.

The sound the little girl made wasn't very loud, but it was enough. The men pulled out their pistols and aimed them in their direction.

"All right!" one yelled; a sergeant. "Come out with your hands were we can see them!"

Blutch knew they didn't have a choice. He couldn't, no _wouldn't_, risk Clara's safety in an attempt to make a run for it. So, taking the child's hand reasuringly, he led her out of the brush.

As soon as they were out in the open, two Confederates grabbed the corporal, tying his hands behind his back. Blutch tried not to cry out when their rough treatment caused a sharp pain in his ribs. He wanted to fight them off, with all his being he wanted to punch and run, but he knew that Clara wouldn't have a chance. Neither of them would.

Blutch was relieved that they were far gentler with Clara than they were with him. They didn't tie her hands, or restrain her in any way other than a firm hand on her shoulder. The girl looked terribly frightened, but otherwise was unharmed.

The Confederate, obviously a sergeant, came and stood in front of the corporal, who was now properly immobilized and relieved of his gun.

The man bent down so as to be at Blutch's level. He was a sour faced man, with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, pressed uniform, and spotless white gloves. Blutch leaned away from him as much as he could, the man's foul breath hitting him in the face as he spoke.

"Good day. My name is Caldwell, Jeremy Caldwell; sergeant of the Confederate army. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to know what you are doing out here?" he asked, voice starting out friendly, but ending low and daunting. "And with such a young companion." He glanced at Clara, who gazed steadily back at him, despite her fear. She still wore Blutch's jacket, causing the sergeant to raise an eyebrow as he turned his attention back on the Union soldier. "Corporal?"

Blutch knew that, even if he did tell them the truth, they wouldn't believe him. So, he remained silent.

The sergeant frowned, clucking his tongue in mock pity. "Tsk tsk tsk. You are not a very wise fellow are you?" He slowly drew his gun from it's holster, cocking it with a deliberate _click_. He placed the pistol against the corporal's chest, a cruel smile creeping across his face. "You should learn to be more courteous to people. So I ask again," all humor left his voice as he pressed the gun harder against the smaller man's chest, close to his heart. "What are you doing out here?"

"H-he's helping me find my family," Clara spoke up quickly, afraid for her friend. The tall, imposing man turned toward her, but his gun still pointed at Blutch.

"To find your family, eh?"

Clara nodded, adding politely, "Yes, Sir."

"Hmmm," the Confederate stroked his beard thoughtfully. "A lone corporal helping a little girl find her dear lost family. Leaving the war and his duty behind...rather suspicious, wouldn't you say?" His men, five including the sergeant, nodded in agreement, their faces mirroring his cruel expression.

Blutch began to have an uneasy feeling tying a knot in his stomach.

"If it _is_ true, you must care an awful lot for this child." Caldwell smiled in a belittling way. "It is never a good idea to get close to others during a war, Corporal..." The gun slowly left Blutch's chest, causing the corporal to release the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. That breath caught in his throat, however, when the barrel turned from him to Clara. His eyes widened and he looked to Caldwell's face, praying that there would be something there to show he didn't really intend to harm the girl. Blutch was disappointed to find the man's expression leaving no room for such a hope. He really meant it. He really would shoot her.

"No, wait!"

Caldwell smiled cruelly at the panicked voice as Blutch struggled to escape the grasp of the Confederate soldiers. He lowered the pistol to his side, turning back to the corporal.

"Ahhh," he said, grinning in a way that made Blutch shiver, "He _can_ speak. You had me worried there for a while. I was beginning to think you were either deaf, mute, or too _stupid_ to answer me."

Under normal circumstances, Blutch would have been outraged by the jibe, but there were more important things than his pride at stake here. Clara was much more important.

"Now," the sergeant began slowly, as if he were talking to a young child. "I'm going to ask you again, and this time I want to here the _truth_. What are you doing out here?"

Blutch felt his stomach turn as the severity of their situation dawned on him. All he could hope for was a miracle. He had to answer, or face the consequences. He couldn't lie, he couldn't stall, Caldwell was too smart for such folly.

"We _have_ been telling you the truth," Blutch said, trying to keep his voice calm and controlled, without much success. His heart was beating so fast it hurt, pounding away in his chest like there was no tomorrow. And there might not be for him and Clara.

"You're lying!"

"No, it's true!" Blutch tried, but Caldwell was not convinced.

"You are some sort of spy," he growled, walking around the corporal. His men released Blutch so that their leader could stalk freely. Like a hunter circling it's prey. He came back to Blutch's front and smiled evilly. "And spies deserve to be shot."

Blutch took a involuntary step backward, and Clara gasped, trying to wiggle away from the hand that now gripped her shoulder tightly. "Leave him alone!" she yelled, anger overriding her fear.

The Confederate sergeant's eyes turned back in her direction. "First," he said coldly, "to get rid of the brat." He raised the gun again, pointing it right at the little girl's heart. "Goodbye, my dear."

_Blutch felt his panic rise to a level he didn't know existed. Everything felt as if time had slowed. He saw the gun rise. He heard Clara gasp in terror. He saw the demonic grin on Caldwell's face. He saw the other soldiers back out of range._

Suddenly the air filled with the sound of thundering hooves. Two horses, by the pattern, at a gallop. Caldwell, pistol still aimed at Clara, lost his focus, as did his men, as they turned their heads in the direction of the oncoming riders.

Blutch saw it as his only chance. In his desperation, he somehow managed to free his hands from the tough bindings behind his back. As the Confederates were distracted, he lunged forward, grabbing Caldwell's pistol as they both fell to the ground.

...

A short distance off, Chesterfield and Mr. Catitdel rode at a steady gate.

"We're almost there," the sergeant called cheerfully behind him. "They're just over-"

Suddenly, the blast and resounding echo of a gunshot shattered the quiet of the forest around them, followed by a cry of pain, and the scream of a little girl.


	14. The Moment of Truth

_Pain_.

Blutch knelt on the ground, arms wrapped tightly around his torso, hands clutched over his left side. It felt as it were engulfed in flame. Searing pain spiderwebbed up his front and back, and his vision began to blur.

Sergeant Caldwell stood up carefully, gaining back his confidence as he slowly realized he had not been the one to receive the bullet.

Clara had managed to wiggle away from the restraining hand on her shoulder, running forward and falling at her friend's side.

"Blutch!"

The corporal gave her the most reassuring smile he could, but his agony only succeeded in him displaying a sort of weak grimace. "I-it's alright, Clar-Clara..." He said, trailing off when he cringed under another wave of fire-like pain.

Clara wasn't convinced. She leaned forward slowly and carefully pulled Blutch's hands from his side. They were covered in red. Blood; more then the little girl had ever seen. It was staining right through the corporal's white button-down shirt, turning it a sickening crimson.

Caldwell smirked down at them, triumph evident in his features. He looked as though he were about to speak, when another voice sounded out close by, cutting him off.

"Leave them alone, or I'll shoot!"

Blutch almost fainted in pure relief as he recognized Chesterfield's loud, strong voice. He had hoped against hope that the sergeant would return before it was too late. It almost had been, but Cornelius always did manage to arrive just in the nick of time. _Just_.

Caldwell turned sharply at the voice and glared at the two horsemen who had come to the edge of the decimated camp, one of which was a sergeant in blue with a gun pointed in his direction.

Chesterfield's heart raced with anxiety. This was _not_ what he had expected to find upon his return. When the gunshot had rung through the later day sky, fear and dread had settled within him. He had increased his speed, coming into view of the incident just as Clara knelt beside an injured Blutch. The Union sergeant saw with horror the spreading red blotch on the corporal's side, and the gun in a Confederate sergeant's hand.

"Clara!"

"Daddy!"

The little girl stood but then stopped, torn between running to her father's arms and staying beside her bleeding friend.

Sergeant Caldwell took her hesitation as an opportunity. He was in trouble, and he knew it. It would take all his cunning to get away. He jumped forward, grabbing Clara's arm and pulling her to him. "Don't come any closer!" he yelled, placing the gun against the child's head, "Or I'll kill her!"

Wilford Catitdel's face drained of all color.

A standoff. Everyone stood stock still. The Confederates. The father. The two sergeants. The terrified child. All was silent. All was motionless.

Blutch, eyes blurry with pain, squinted up from his position on the ground. Panting heavily, he noticed for the first time the amount of blood that was covering his hands. It startled him terribly. He had only been seriously hurt a few times in the army. Once he had been shot in the leg, while another time he had been in a ammunition explosion in the trenches that nearly killed him. He had pulled through both incidents without too much trouble. But that had been somewhere where there were doctors. Where he could be treated immediately. Not out in the middle of some glen, miles from any civilization. Somehow too, this seemed worse. This wasn't just some bullet lodged in his calf, or badly burned or battered skin, like in the past. From the warm trickle he could feel slowly spilling down his back, as well as his front, he knew that the bullet had gone right through him.

That, in itself, wasn't a bad thing. It meant they wouldn't have to dig out the mettle projectile, but it did mean he was bleeding much more then he normally would from being shot. Blood loss would be his greatest problem. He could already feel it affecting him, making his movements sluggish, and his mind foggy.

His eyes managed to focus on the scene in front of him once more, just as Caldwell grabbed Clara. He felt his heart skip a beat, then nearly shudder to a stop as the gun was directed towards the child.

"Don't come any closer, or I'll kill her!"

_Kill_ _her?_ _Dead?_ _Death_. _Violence_. _Hurt_. _Fear_. _Pain_. _Lots_ _of_ _pain_. His mind frantically tried to gather his thoughts. His heart was racing as the familier feeling of an oncoming panic attack loomed within him.

_No. Have to fight it. Save Clara. Save her! _

The thought seemed to snap him to full focus. Ignoring his panic the best he could, he put all his adrenaline-induced energy into coming up with a way to fix the dangerous situation. Glancing about, he spotted his gun in a pile of camp supplies, where the Confederate soldiers had thrown it after they had disarmed him.

Painfully, he managed to pull himself toward it. Nobody noticed his movements; all eyes were focused on Caldwell and Clara. The Confederate sergeant was still trying to bargain with Chesterfield.

"Hand over all your valuables, and I'll let the kid go."

Chesterfield _knew_ that was a lie. Once he had what he wanted, a cold hearted man like Caldwell would probably take Clara with him, to ensure his escape. Or just kill her. To refuse the offer now would result in dire consequences.

"Do I have your word," Cornelius asked, stalling for as much time as he could. He suddenly saw movement behind the Confederate and his hostage. It was Blutch, just as the injured corporal made it to his pistol.

"You have my word as a gentleman, Sir," Caldwell spoke up, not noticing the Union sergeant was no longer directing his attention at him, but behind him.

"L-let her g-go."

The voice was small and weak, but filled with determination and anger. Turning, Caldwell sized up the small man who now stood unsteadily before him, a gun in his shaking hand pointed at the Confederate sergeant.

Chesterfield wasn't sure how Blutch had managed to get to his feet in his condition. It was obvious to the Union sergeant that the corporal was on the verge of another panic attack. That, added to the apparent blood loss, was affecting his friend quickly, and it was a wonder he had not fainted yet.

Blutch stood, right arm wrapped around his torso while the other gripped his pistol. His arm was pointed strait out, gun shivering like an extension of his own quaking arm. The fiery burning in his side was worse now that he standing; putting stress on the muscles. It hurt, and he knew that he wouldn't be able to stand for long. He just hoped he could stay conscious.

Caldwell's cruel smile reappeared on his face. "Why, if it isn't the little corporal! Back on your feet I see." Blutch swayed dangerously, but managed to regain his stance. Caldwell smirked. His eyes moved to the quivering gun pointed at his own chest. "You won't shoot me," he grinned evilly. "I know your type. Tough on the outside, but on the inside, frightened and weak." He spread his arms wide. "Go ahead, shoot me. Spill my blood. My death'll be on your hands, corporal...Do you think you could live with that?"

He placed the gun back to Clara's head quickly when he saw Chesterfield move forward in his peripheral vision. "Ah, ah, ah, Sergeant! Not another step!"

Chesterfield froze. His frustration rising. Blutch was the only one who even had a _chance_ of saving Clara, but...

Blutch stood shaking uncontrollably, his mind reeling as he fought with his own inner feelings and emotions.

_Can't kill! Can't! _Blood_. _Violence_. Can't do it!_

_If you don't, Clara will die! _Fear_._

_I...can't. _Failure_._

_Why not?!_

_Stupid war! Stupid, stupid war! Not fair! Not right!_ Anger. Confusion.

_Meant to happen._

_W-what?_

_Meant to happen. Remember what Chesterfield said?_

_Yes...but..._

_This war is a part of history. We can't change the way things are...but we can change the way things will be. You can't erase this war from existence, but you can affect how it will turn out in the end._

_And...and Clara? _Guilt_._

_Same thing. You can't change the fact that you and Clara got caught. It's not your fault that she's in danger. You can't erase that either. But you can save her. Change the outcome...forget the past._

Blutch looked back into Caldwell's cruel, heartless eyes. The Confederate man shook his head, as if disappointed. "That's what I thought." His finger began to pull at the trigger. Clara whimpered and shut her eyes tightly.

_Bang! Bang!_

Chesterfield and Wilford Catitdel, who had jumped forward to intervene, suddenly halted. Shock apparent on their faces as the body heavily fell to the ground. Shot dead.

**...**

**Sorry this one was a bit short. Bringing things to a close. Should be about one more chapter. Maybe two, but probably one. :) THANKS!**


	15. It Ends

Blutch's eyes slowly opened. The sudden brightness hurt them and he closed them again quickly with a moan. He gasped when, moving a hand to his face, he felt a sudden, sharp pain in his side. His eyes opened wide despite the light as he finally became fully conscious.

He lay panting a moment, just trying to deal with the pain. When it subsided, he realized there was a weight on his arm. Turning his head slightly, he discovered a woman sitting beside him, with her hand placed carefully on his limb.

At first the corporal was startled, but her kind, reassuring smile was gentle.

"It's alright," she said, voice calming, just like the smile. "Your safe now. Just stay still."

She was beautiful. Her eyes were as blue as the ocean; pools of crystal on a white sea. Her red hair, which was long and curly, wrapped around her like a shawl. She reminded him of someone...but his mind was still foggy, and he couldn't even begin to remember who.

Blutch relaxed into the blankets and let his eyes roam his surroundings. "Wh-where am I?" The bright light that seemed to be all around him made it hard to tell.

The woman smiled even more gently. "You're in a covered wagon on your way to your army camp."

_Army. Confederates. Caldwell. Oh!_

Blutch sat strait up, despite the pain, as everything came back to him. "Clara! Where's Clara?! What happened to-"

The woman laid a hand on his shoulder, firmly pushing him back down. "Careful! You are injured. If you get up you will undo what we have done to help you."

Blutch looked down at himself for the first time since his waking. He still had his white button-down shirt on, but it was open instead of closed. From beneath it, more white peeked through; the clean white of bandages. They were wrapped snugly around his entire upper stomach and chest. More then the ones Dr. Jenkins had wrapped around him before. These covered a far larger area than just his ribs. The shirt had no stain on it; no blood, and seemed to be larger then he remembered.

The corporal looked back up at the woman, realizing who it was that she reminded him of. "Your Clara's mother, aren't you?"

Caroline Catitdel nodded.

"Is Clara alright?"

"Clara's fine," she answered, "Thanks to you."

Blutch blinked, still finding that part of the incident a bit fuzzy. "What happened?"

"You shot him."

The voice did not belong to Mrs. Catitdel. Looking to the side, both Blutch and Caroline saw Chesterfield leaning through the back entrance of the wagon. He wore his blue uniform jacket, front open like Blutch's own top, but no white shirt underneath. It suddenly became clear to the corporal that the sergeant had donated his white shirt for him. "How is he," the sergeant asked, nodding in Blutch's direction.

"He's in far less pain, it would seem," Mrs. Catitdel observed, "But he shouldn't strain himself in any way. And he certainly _mustn't_ get up." This last statement was more for the corporal's benefit then Chesterfield's. "He's just a bit...confused."

Chesterfield nodded slowly. Then came forward and laid a hand on her shoulder. "May I speak with him alone?"

"Oh, of course, Sergeant," she smiled, rising and leaving quickly. She only stopped at the exit to tell them to call her if they needed anything. After she left there was a long silence.

"I...I shot Caldwell?" Blutch's voice sounded frightened, and confused.

Chesterfield came and sat beside his makeshift bed, nodding. "Yup. Twice."

"Twice?!" The corporal's confusion increased. Then he felt his stomach turn as realization dawned on him. "...Dead?"

Chesterfield sighed. "Blutch, what's the last thing you remember?"

Blutch thought for a moment, searching his jumbled mind for something that made sense. "I...I remember Caldwell grabbing Clara. He...he was going to kill her, Sergeant! I went...I found my pistol. I...I pointed it at him...He was going to kill her..." A look of total confusion crossed the soldier's face. "Th-that's all I remember."

"You don't remember firing the gun?" Chesterfield asked. When Blutch shook his head, the sergeant continued the narrative. "Caldwell was about to shoot Clara, and Mr. Catitdel and I made a run at him. Before we could reach him, however, you shot two shots. One caught him in the hand, effectively causing him to drop his gun. The other hit him right after that. Right in the chest. It must have hit his heart. He died instantly."

Blutch felt sick all of a sudden, turning very pale. "I...I didn't mean to...to kill him. But he...he was going to kill Clara. A little girl, Sergeant. An innocent child. I...I had to..." He looked as if he was about to cry.

"You did the right thing," Chesterfield said carefully.

"But...but it still feels wrong." He was silent for a moment. "Just like the war."

The sergeant raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Blutch didn't answer at first. "It's like this war. It doesn't feel right. Maybe it _isn't_ right. But we have to keep fighting for the parts that _are_ right. Just like I had to...to kill Caldwell to save Clara. We have to fight this war to save...the lives of those in slavery. To save our country's unity, and our freedom...right?"

Chesterfield's mouth curled into a proud smile. Blutch had never been terribly patriotic. To hear him speak in such words brought hope to the sergeant. He grinned. "Right."

"That's why you fight?"

"Yes."

Blutch fell silent again. "What happened after I shot Caldwell?"

Chesterfield's smile faded slightly. "You passed out, just as you fired the second bullet. Whether it was from the pain or...or something else, I'm not sure."

"And these?" The corporal gestured to the bandages that covered most of his upper torso.

"Well, for one thing, you'd been shot. Went strait through. Blood loss and pain probably led to you fainting the way you did." He rubbed the back of his neck. "When you fell, you landed on one of your cracked ribs. Broke it, it seems. That's probably why you shouldn't move much."

"Got it."

They both became silent. The sunshine beamed down through the canvas, as the covered wagon rolled along the road. Blutch wasn't sure who was driving, but he had a sneaking suspicion it was Mr. Catitdel. Clara was probably nearby as well. The corporal was glad she was alright. His mind shifted back through all their adventures since he had found the child, buried beneath the abandoned schoolhouse. He thought through all of the conversations, the joys...the fears, the attacks, the pain...But it had all been worth it in the end.

"Hey...Sergeant?"

"Yes, Blutch?"

"I...I don't think I'll have any more panic attacks."

Chesterfield cocked his head. "Really?"

Blutch nodded. "I think I understand...at least, partially. I can't change what has happened in the past. I can't change the fact that I never had a family. I can't change the fact that I was put in a rotten orphanage. And I can't change the fact that we are at war. But...but I can change what my life will be in the future. How my life will continue. How this war will end...I'm a part of this history...and what I do effects the story. That's how it is for everyone." He gave Chesterfield, who had been grinning ear to ear, a wry smile. "But don't expect me to participate in the charge, Sergeant. I'll fight the war in my own way."

The sergeant's face fell slightly into it's old scowl, but then he smiled. "I guess I wouldn't want you to change too much."

"Blutch?"

The small voice of Clara drifted into the enclosed space. Her little face peeked around a corner flap, red curls dangling about her lightly. When she saw the corporal awake, she ran in with a shriek of joy. "Blutch!"

Her friend winced in pain as she practically fell on him, embracing him in a hug that could have broken his other ribs. But he smiled. He didn't care. Clara's happiness was more important to him at the moment, than his own comfort.

"Clara! How are you? Are you alright?" Blutch looked her up and down, as if afraid some hidden wound would appear. She smiled at him, patting his hand gently.

"I'm fine! Mommy and Daddy are helping us take you back to your camp." Her smile faded. "Will...will I ever see you again?"

Blutch felt his heart falter. "I...I don't-"

"Yes," Chesterfield interrupted. Blutch and Clara looked to him to see him smiling down at them. "We'll make sure to visit." And Blutch knew he meant it.

Clara smiled. Then she seemed to remember something. "Oh," she exclaimed, fishing around in her apron pocket. She was no longer dressed in rags, nor wrapped in the corporal's uniform jacket. She wore a light pink dress with a blue ridden around her little waist. A clean, white apron topped the whole thing off. She pulled something out, cupped in her hands, and held it to her chest.

"You saved me, Blutch," she said softly, laying a hand on his. "More then once. You and the Sergeant helped me find my family. But it was you who stood up from me. You saved me from the schoolhouse, from the bear, and from Mr. Caldwell. I could never tell you how much you mean to me. I want you to have this." She opened her tiny hands to reveal the locket.

"Where- how did you find it?" Blutch sputtered.

"One of Caldwell's men had it," Chesterfield said. "But we got it back before they took him away to prison."

Blutch held the small trinket in his hand. "I...I can't take this," he whispered, holding the hand with the locket out toward the little child.

Clara smiled. She took her delicate hands and closed his fingers around it. "Please," she whispered back. "Take it, so you won't forget me."

Blutch reached out and enveloped the child in a firm hug. "I could never forget you, Clara Catitdel."

The small wagon was pulled along the road, kicking up dirt and rubble as it rumbled by. Inside, three friends talked quietly. One, small and sweet, enjoying her last few days with her companions. The other two, enjoying her company and reflecting on how the little girl had changed their lives for the better.

,..,.,,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,..,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,

_**Two months later...**_

Blutch sat upon Arabesque's gray back. His hand fiddled with the locket that lay around his neck, hidden beneath his uniform. His ribs had healed nicely, as had his bullet wound. It still was a bit sore, but that was to be expected.

Chesterfield sat strait in the saddle on his steed right beside the corporal. This would be Blutch's first battle since he had been released from the infirmary. The sergeant watched him closely.

Captain Stark urged his horse to the front of the cavalry lines. Like a proud peacock, strutting before a hen-house. He stared down at the assembled Confederate army in the field below them. His red mustache twitched. Slowly, his hand came to rest on the hilt of his sword. With great seriousness, he drew it from it's sheath and held it above his head. With a loud yell he released a mighty cry to all those who followed his orders.

"CHARRRRRGE!"

Caught up in the moment, Chesterfield launched forward on his steed, sword raised in enthusiastic patriotism. In his excitement he didn't here the distinct _thump_ behind him. Cheering and yelling, the cavalry charged into the oncoming wave of the enemy.

The battle was fierce. Canons exploded, guns sounded, swords clashed, and men cried out in triumph or, sometimes, defeat.

Chesterfield paused in his battle frenzy, looking about him for the first time for Corporal Blutch. But...he couldn't find him. At first, he was frightened something had happened to his friend, but then, high upon the hill where they had charged from, he caught a glimpse of blue and gray.

"BLUTCH!" The sergeant bellowed angrily. The shout echoed up above the battle, reaching the ears of two silently watching figures.

Blutch stood beside Arabesque, stroking the horse's mane as he concentrated on the battle below. He had a new understanding for the war now; a new respect, but he knew he couldn't fight. He knew he couldn't kill anyone else. Not unless it was absolutely necessary. He would change the war in his own way.

And as the resounding echo of his sergeant's frustrated shout faded into the surrounding hills, Blutch smiled.

"Finally...things are back to normal."

** . The End .**


End file.
